Ways and Means
by Tiffany Park
Summary: Major Carter has a run-in with an NID shadow operation, and encounters an old acquaintance. Primarily a Sam-as-action-hero vehicle, but because the story was written for the Makepeace list, he has a significant part as well. Major Carter, Colonel Makepeace, General Hammond, SG-1, SG-3.
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: Ways and Means

AUTHOR: Tiffany Park

STATUS: Complete

CATEGORY: Intrigue, Action/Adventure, Drama, Unabashedly AU

SPOILERS: Anything up to the end of Season Four

SEASON: Set in an AU timeline. God only knows when.

RATING: R

CONTENT WARNINGS: Profanity, graphic violence

SUMMARY: Major Carter has a run-in with an NID shadow operation, and encounters an old acquaintance.

ARCHIVE: Please ask

DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story veers off into its own little universe after Season Three. It makes use of a few events from the fourth season, but other than that, no attempt is made to adhere to subsequent canon. Heck, my NID is actually competent, which makes this story wildly AU from the show's canon. *G* Read at your own risk. The town of Eddington, Montana, is completely fictional, so don't bother checking for it on the map. Or maybe the NID just made it disappear...

August 8, 2008 NOTES: Okay, this fic was written waaaay back at the end of SG1 Season 3. I tweaked it during S4 to make it fit in with the newer canon, and after that I just gave up on it. I'm sure it violates all kinds of post S4 canon. *G* You guys said post it as is, but I can never do that. The latest tweaking was pretty minimal, though. And without further ado, here we go...

October 24, 2015: More fic from ancient times, back when the sun first started shining, dirt was new, and dinosaurs roamed the Earth. Considering that this fic was originally written in Season 3 (2001/2002), there are an awful lot of deviations from the canon defined in later seasons, even more now than there were back when this was first posted to the Makepeace list at yahoogroups in 2008. For example, I gave Zero Point Energy (ZPE) technology to the Asgard, when on the show IIRC it was later revealed that the Ancients created that tech. A lot of things are also going to seem pretty dated, especially to younger readers. Are there any pay telephones left anywhere? Yeah, that's the kind of thing I'm talking about (though when this story was written they were still common, so would have been natural to the characters). I'm sure there are many, many others.

This is primarily a Sam-as-action-hero vehicle, intended to give her a different role than the usual shipper fantasy of "romance heroine" found in much fanfic of the time. However, because it was posted to the Makepeace list naturally I had to give him something to do. The first few chapters focus on him, and after that it is mostly Sam's show. The rest of SG-1 have small appearances. Just FYI.

There are a whole lot of dreadful action/spy movie clichés in this story. LOL.

If everything I've mentioned above doesn't distract or annoy you unduly, enjoy!


	2. Chapter 2

**Ways and Means**

 **by**

 **Tiffany Park**

The concrete hallway was lined with packed boxes. Denim-clad personnel hurried back and forth, picking up and moving the cartons down the corridor to the elevator. Curses could occasionally be heard, but very little chatter. In fact, the people seemed deadly serious in their intent to move out of the building.

Robert Makepeace, dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, carefully picked his way through the organized confusion, deftly avoiding human and cardboard obstacles alike. Earlier, the boxes had been stacked almost to the ceiling. Now most of them were gone, but there were still more than enough to provide a challenging obstacle course. No doubt, those too would be gone in a few more hours, given the competence of the operation's staff.

Whenever the NID moved one of its secret bases, it was brutally efficient. By the end of the week, this particular facility would probably be utterly deserted. In fact, anyone venturing into it would never suspect that it had been occupied by over a hundred people within the last decade, let alone the last month.

Moves like this one were a common occurrence for the NID's quasi-legal, and flat-out illegal, programs. Makepeace had been through several before he'd been handed his current assignment, but this particular move had taken him by surprise. The other day the Director of Operations, Eric Hartley, had called an all-hands meeting and bluntly made the announcement, leaving everyone to scramble for dear life.

While individuals had to pack their own office supplies, the R&D—Research and Development—stuff was handled by pros in the organization. Hartley wasn't about to let that get screwed up. With damn good reason.

This outfit was devoted to duplicating the Asgard zero-point energy collection technology, as originally researched by Lieutenant Claire Tobias on the now-defunct off-world base. Makepeace found the project fascinating, if a bit surreal. The idea that a vacuum actually contained any potential energy at all that could be tapped, let alone an infinite amount, boggled the mind. Enough to solve all of Earth's energy demands, enough to power faster-than-light spaceships, enough to create bombs that would beggar even the most powerful naquada-driven explosion. It was both terrifying and intriguing. Tobias was the lead scientist on the project, and according to her reports, they were close, very close. Just a little longer...

Of course, that might just be an exaggeration to please the higher-ups and keep the money flowing. Nonetheless, the project was treated as though it were the Holy Grail or the Ark of the Covenant. It was moved regularly as a preventative measure, even though the scientists involved always complained volubly that each move set them back the time required to tear down their prototypes, pack the equipment, then set it all up again at the new location.

Makepeace hurried toward his office, hoping to finish his own packing before someone recruited him to help haul boxes. Rank was no consideration during an NID move; all strong backs were pressed into service.

He sidestepped one last carton sitting in the middle of the hall, opened his door, and stepped into his office, only to find it already occupied. He stopped dead in surprise.

Director Hartley was sitting at his desk, idly examining the desktop computer screen. As was typical, the director chose to affect the image of a mid-level government bureaucrat, immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit, with his gray hair perfectly combed and styled. He regarded Makepeace over steepled fingers. "Hello, Bob," he said in his usual calm, controlled manner.

Two rather large guards stood on either side of the door, hands relaxed and near their sidearms. Although everyone involved in the operation usually wore civvies to avoid alerting the locals that anything unusual might be going on in their town, on site NID guards often went about entirely in black, and these two were no exception. If they couldn't wear black fatigues they settled for black slacks, black jackets, black shirts, and black boots or shoes. Makepeace had often wondered if it was just an image thing; in his more cynical moments he was certain the NID probably kept a few black helicopters, too, just for appearances' sake.

He hadn't expected to find Hartley and two guards in his office, though. Not a good sign.

He glanced around and finally realized that his personal laptop was also sitting on the desk. That meant some NID goons had ransacked his apartment. And if they'd done that...

Makepeace swallowed hard.

"Director," he greeted Hartley, hiding his uneasiness by projecting confidence and a touch of bewilderment into his voice. He nodded his head at the black-garbed hulks flanking his door. "What's with the muscle?"

Hartley smiled, his passionless expression even colder than usual. The director spoke without preamble, "Bob, as you know, Colonel Maybourne has made a number of, shall we say, questionable decisions in the past few years. We suspect he may have conflicting interests at heart."

"What do you mean? Maybourne works for the NID," Makepeace said ingenuously. He knew that was a meaningless statement when it came to inter-departmental loyalties and politics. The NID, convoluted and many-headed Hydra that it was, almost always had divisions working at cross-purposes to one another.

"Perhaps," Hartley said carelessly.

"You think he's a traitor?" Wouldn't that be funny. "Who do you think he's working for, then?"

"Probably just himself, based on an in-house analysis of his recent actions."

The phrase "in-house analysis" was code for "Hartley's pet analysts' theories." Makepeace mulled that over, taking the somewhat biased source into account. Admittedly, he was curious as to what Maybourne had pulled that had Hartley so up in arms. Outside contact with the happenings in the NID were strongly discouraged in this suspicious outfit. He briefly wondered if the NID had screwed with the good colonel one time too many. Perhaps Maybourne, ruthless and wily fox that he was, had finally had enough and turned the tables on his employers. Makepeace supposed it was possible, especially when he factored in the power shifts that had been occurring over the last two years. He considered that interpretation to be somewhat farfetched, though. More likely, he reasoned, it was simply a case of the right hand not knowing what the left was up to, and Hartley was just being his usual, over-paranoid self.

During the course of his involvement with the NID, Makepeace had also become extra-paranoid, and his mind had become accustomed to examining the angles in ways he never would have dreamed of back in his Force Recon days. However, this wasn't one of them. Anyone with half a brain would wonder why the director was telling him about Maybourne and his little foibles, especially when the details had apparently been kept secret from the rank and file until now. His stomach gave a small lurch as he considered the ramifications of the laptop and the topic of conversation.

"What does all this have to do with me?" he asked, dreading the answer.

Hartley gave him a hard look. "You were recruited by Colonel Maybourne."

Ah. So that was it. A matter for concern, but not entirely irreparable. "I assure you, sir, that my loyalty is entirely to the NID, not just to one particular individual," Makepeace protested as earnestly as he thought he could get away with.

Hartley continued as though he hadn't spoken. "As such, you, like several other people, have been under close scrutiny for some time now. Shall I tell you what we found?"

Makepeace felt the spittle dry in his mouth. This was bad, really bad. He stayed silent.

Hartley patted a pile of computer printouts. "This stack of paper represents your computer and network activity over the past six months. Last month's logs made for particularly interesting reading. You've been busy, haven't you?"

"That's my job. Coordinating—"

Makepeace stopped when Hartley got up and walked around the desk. The director stood intimately close. "How long, Bob?" he asked softly.

Makepeace forced himself to breathe evenly. "I don't understand."

"How long have you been spying on us? Since Maybourne recruited you? Later? Or were you a plant to deceive Maybourne, too?" Hartley moved back and looked Makepeace up and down. "Who do you really work for? Maybourne, or someone else?"

Makepeace kept his face still. "I don't know what you're talking about. I work for the NID. I'll do whatever it takes to protect my country, you know that."

"Well, I'm sure that last statement is probably true. I wonder which country that is?"

Makepeace took an angry step forward. Immediately, the guards grabbed his arms and held him still.

Hartley paced the length of the office, hands clasped behind his back. He paused before the desk and nodded to the laptop. "You did a decent job of covering your tracks on your own machine, at least. Even zeroed out and reformatted the hard drive. But there are ways of retrieving old data from magnetic media, even data that's been overwritten with garbage. The only real way to completely destroy the data is to slag the drive." He locked eyes with Makepeace. "What we recovered from your laptop was rather incriminating. But then, you know that, don't you?"

Makepeace stared back at him dispassionately, although his heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest.

Hartley regarded him for a moment, then asked, "Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"It's too late to play dumb, Bob. Where's the data you copied?"

Makepeace was silent.

"A safe deposit box in a bank somewhere, I would imagine. You haven't been terribly creative in this endeavor, after all. Tell me, does your contact make pickups on a regular schedule, or do you need to make special arrangements?"

Makepeace continued to stare at Hartley, and kept his mouth firmly closed.

"We'll find out eventually, Bob. You may as well make it easy on yourself." Hartley paused, waiting. When no answer was forthcoming, he said, "Fine, we'll do it the hard way." He looked to the guards, still holding Makepeace. "Escort the colonel to the detention block."

Makepeace shook himself out of their grip. "I know the way," he snarled and stalked out the door. The two guards followed.


	3. Chapter 3

For what felt like the hundredth time, Makepeace awoke to darkness and the stench of his own vomit. Both were so familiar they seemed like old friends, now. It was always dark in the chilly cell, a crude but time-honored disorientation tactic. Makepeace couldn't really judge—he'd lost track of time long ago—but if he had to guess he'd say he'd been a prisoner for maybe four or five days.

He thought idly about moving, but abandoned the notion when blinking proved to be too much effort. The way he felt, he doubted larger muscles would obey him, anyway. Every bone ached, although fortunately none were broken—yet. Makepeace didn't figure that happy state of affairs would last much longer.

Several teeth were loose, but so far stubbornly remained in their sockets. His wrists were raw and abraded from straining against steel handcuffs, and he felt as though every inch of his flesh was bruised, cut, or burned. It probably was. Not satisfied with mere beatings, Hartley's boys had brought in such homey implements as stun guns and night sticks, and one enterprising goon had swiped his girlfriend's curling iron. At least that last item didn't burn as deeply as other things Makepeace could think of, for which he was profoundly grateful.

He managed to roll over onto his back and groaned. It was worse every time he woke up. Last time, when they'd come for him, he'd puked as they pulled him to his feet. That had earned him a date with a fire hose, ostensibly to clean him up, and the experience had been every bit as bad as the regular torture.

At that point, he decided he'd held out long enough for credibility's sake and started talking. Since he'd made a habit of moving his stash at irregular intervals, he was able to give Hartley an old location, hoping for a respite while the goon squad checked it out. That hope was dashed when two guards dragged him back to his cell and beat him senseless—not a difficult task given his physical condition.

Sooner or later, Makepeace figured, he wouldn't wake up at all, and found himself disturbingly relieved at the idea.

He wasn't normally the suicidal type, but there was no sense in deluding himself about his chances for survival. He was dead no matter what—it didn't matter if he babbled anything worthwhile or not. Hartley would have him killed when he was done with him.

There was no hope of a rescue. For security reasons, Makepeace only checked in once a month, to let his people know he was still breathing and arrange a pickup if necessary. His next check-in wasn't for another two weeks. He'd be long dead before anyone realized he'd been made. He held out against Hartley and his goons on the off-chance that, when he was finally missed, the folks back home might canvass the area and stumble onto his data cache. Well, that and sheer cussedness. Anything to do Hartley a bad turn.

The sudden and unexpected brilliance of the light coming on blinded him. Shit, already? He'd just woken up. As he squinted, the cell door was thrown open and two guards entered. Dorsett and Jennings. Lovely.

"Get up," Jennings ordered, giving Makepeace a sharp kick. Makepeace curled up and groaned.

Dorsett swore at him, then hauled him up and shoved him face first against the concrete wall. His hands were cuffed behind his back. Dorsett spun him around and pushed him toward the door.

Makepeace's legs could no longer support his weight. He collapsed and lay on the floor, just breathing, trying to ride out the pain. This time it was Jennings who swore at him. The guards again yanked him upright and dragged him out of the cell, down the hall to the interrogation room.

He was flung into a hard, armless chair. Dorsett walked around and leered at him. Makepeace stared down, determinedly keeping his gaze on the floor, not ready to get into it just yet, all too aware of the camera near the ceiling that allowed Hartley to watch the proceedings without the hazard of getting blood on his nice, clean clothes.

Suddenly, Dorsett's meaty hand lashed out. He grabbed Makepeace by the hair and jerked back, forcing the Marine to look directly at his ugly face. "Where is it, you stupid fuck?"

"I told you before—" Makepeace began, determined to stall if he could.

Dorsett backhanded him with so much force that Makepeace was thrown to the ground. He sprawled there, face down, and felt warm, salty liquid fill his mouth. He spat it out, and wasn't surprised to see a flash of white land on the concrete among the crimson spatters. One of the loose teeth had finally given up the ghost. Makepeace rested his cheek on the cool cement floor and gazed at the molar.

Dorsett's booted foot came down on the tooth and crushed it. Makepeace closed his eyes.

"We've already checked the location you gave up this morning," Jennings said in his cool, precise voice. "We know you lied." He regarded Makepeace for a moment, then added, "You're really going to regret that. Hartley's got something special for you this time. Turn over."

Makepeace ignored the command, so Dorsett kicked him over onto his back. Jennings knelt down by Makepeace's head, fingering a syringe filled with a golden, viscous liquid. "Recognize this? No? It's Sunfire."

Makepeace's eyes widened. Jennings uttered a sharp bark of laughter. "Yes, I see you've heard of the stuff." He gripped Makepeace's hair and yanked his head aside, exposing the side of his neck. Carefully, he slid the needle into the jugular and injected the syringe's contents, then released his victim and stood up. "We'll talk again in an hour or two." Then he and Dorsett departed, locking the door behind them.

Makepeace stared after them, aghast. He knew of Sunfire's effects by hearsay only, but that was more than enough to terrify him. An off-world drug that was easily synthesized on Earth, it induced excruciating pain that had been likened to being burned alive, hence its somewhat euphemistic name. The kicker was, it was something he'd muled back himself, over two years ago. The irony was devastating.

He felt it working already. A gentle warmth was spreading outwards from his neck, throughout his whole body. It was comforting, relaxing, but Makepeace knew that sensation wouldn't last for long. Slowly, ever so slowly, the heat intensified.

In less than ten minutes, Makepeace was screaming.


	4. Chapter 4

Director Hartley paced in the observation room and grumbled impatiently. Two more days wasted. The bastard had held out for two more days, even against the drug. Time was running out.

He paused to watch Makepeace thrash against the floor on a closed circuit TV monitor. The speaker volume was set low, so the screams weren't terribly disturbing. Hartley would have liked to turn the sound off entirely, but it wouldn't do to miss any stray confessions that the rather heavy-handed torture might wring from the recalcitrant Marine.

Not that Hartley was really expecting anything other than incoherence until the alien drug wore off. For that matter, Hartley didn't really have to view the session live, since it was being recorded. He suffered through it because, if he didn't, he'd just have to review the tape later, anyway.

He took no particular pleasure in inflicting pain or watching as another suffered. In fact, he was fairly dispassionate about the whole process. Torture was simply a means to an end; a distasteful but necessary tool that could achieve the desired results if utilized with a modicum of skill.

He wondered if this session would be any more productive than the others. This was Makepeace's third experience with Sunfire, and he'd been promised a fourth if he didn't cooperate. You'd think the man would have broken by now. But no, he had to be the tough Marine, with that obnoxious bad-ass Marine Corps attitude, and hadn't spilled a single worthwhile word. How on Earth, Hartley mused in frustration, could someone like Harry Maybourne inspire that kind of loyalty?

The hoarse screams were lessening, becoming gasps and groans. The effects of the drug were abating. Hartley checked his watch. A little less than an hour. That was quick. The dose must have been a trifle smaller than usual.

He looked again at the monitor. Makepeace had stopped writhing and was now lying belly up, eyes closed, panting so hard his whole body shuddered. His fists, cuffed behind his back, slowly unclenched. He was soaked with sweat and urine.

The typical aftermath of a standard hit of Sunfire.

Hartley turned up the volume and keyed the mike. "Welcome back, Bob. Got anything you want to get off your chest before we try again?"

With an effort that appeared agonizing, Makepeace opened his eyes and shakily turned his head toward the camera. His bloodshot eyes blazed with hatred. In a voice that was barely recognizable as human, he snarled, "Fuck you, Hartley!" He followed up with a long string of remarkably vile and creative profanities.

Hartley shook his head and switched off the sound. Same old, same old. Pain just wasn't doing the trick. Yet.

It was really too bad he didn't have someone working for him who could administer any of the various truth drugs available to the NID. He'd tried alternating sodium pentothal with the Sunfire sessions, but it hadn't been effective—hardly big surprise, he thought wryly, since the so-called "truth drug" was merely a kind of sedative. In smaller doses, it depressed the subject's central nervous system and inhibitory reactions, which had the effect of making him more communicative. However, it couldn't suppress a person's self-control; it could no more force a subject to tell the truth than alcohol could. A sufficiently strong-willed individual could lie a blue streak in spite of the drug—and Robert Makepeace was nothing if not strong-willed.

Unfortunately for Hartley, the more efficient—and hallucinogenic—truth drugs were tricky; they required an expert with specialized training who could determine proper dosages and drug mixes, judge a subject's mental and physical state, and lead him through carefully constructed suggestions and questioning. Hartley's operation was simply too small to warrant keeping such an elite specialist on the regular staff, and Hartley didn't want to make a request of the NID leadership if he didn't have to. The successful completion of this project would gain him significant standing within the organization, and greater advancement opportunities for his people. Hartley didn't want to alert any rival factions to what was going on; the idea of anyone else in the NID getting their hands on the illicit copies of Tobias's work was unacceptable.

For similar reasons, he couldn't just order his people to search every safe deposit box, locker, and loose floorboard in the town. That kind of activity was guaranteed to alert another agency to his presence here—there were one or two competing organizations that could do a lot of damage to the NID's status if certain activities could be proven, and none of them bore the NID much good will. Their leadership would jump at the chance to screw the NID.

So, instead of using more practical, reliable methods, Hartley had to make do with the ways and means presently at his disposal: ordinary physical torture and less finicky drugs, such as Sunfire. Eventually it would work—no one could hold out forever—but it might take weeks, and Hartley didn't have the time. At some point, Makepeace would miss a scheduled check-in with Maybourne or whoever the hell he was working for. Then his people, whoever they were, would probably show up looking for the man's little data hoard. Whether they might also make the effort to locate Makepeace or simply write him off was a matter of conjecture.

It was time to move things along.

Hartley picked up the phone and punched in a three-digit code. "Olmstead, get Slater and Dorsett and report to the observation room. Now."

Less than five minutes later, three men entered the small room. Slater, a hard-eyed professional, stood relaxed and balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to move at an instant's notice. Olmstead, a regular Air Force type and one of Hartley's favorite henchmen, clasped his hands behind his back in parade rest. The third member of the trio, Dorsett, had already been taking an active role in the interrogation. He was an ugly hulk of a man who, despite his perpetual attitude problem, had proven useful in the past.

"I've got a special job for you people," Hartley told them.

Dorsett sniggered and walked over to the monitor. He crossed his massive arms and leaned against a table. "I take it this means you still haven't gotten anything out of him?"

"He's stubborn."

"Could've told you that, myself. You'd almost think the dumbshit likes getting the crap beaten out of him."

"What's the job?" Slater asked, getting right to the point.

"I believe it's time to apply some external pressure," Hartley said. "I want you to go snatch someone we can use as leverage."

"Who's the mark?"

"Some very special friends." Hartley grinned nastily. "I want you to grab someone from his old team."

"Why them in particular?"

"All the SGC's field teams are like Special Operations units," Olmstead explained. "They all tend to live in each other's pockets. They're closer than most families."

Hartley added, "That's correct. We won't find anyone better suited for what I have in mind."

"Assuming there's still anyone left at the SGC that Makepeace gives a rat's ass about," Dorsett sneered.

"There are." Hartley walked to a computer station and keyed in a few commands. Two dossiers, including digitized photos, were displayed on the screen.

Slater whistled. "Neat little database you got there. Just how extensive is it?"

"We have files on everyone at the SGC," Hartley told him. "For a rainy day, you know."

"That's some rainy day you're planning for." Slater read the dossiers with a smirk on his face. "Looks like you know everything there is to know about these guys. Bet you even know how often they take a dump."

Hartley grimaced. While there was a great deal of truth to Slater's statements, he himself had never regarded it in quite such a crude light before. Information was power. The more information you had, the more power. That was all the justification required for any intelligence, however irrelevant seeming, that the NID chose to gather.

Dismissing Slater's deliberate provocation from his thoughts, Hartley pointed at the pictures, smearing a fingerprint across the glass, and said in his most businesslike manner, "Captain Johnson and Gunnery Sergeant Andrews both served with Makepeace for over two years. You need to bring back one of them. I don't care which."

Dorsett ambled over and studied the files. "You gotta be fucking kidding!" he exploded. "Both those guys used to be Force Recon!"

Although not part of the U.S. Special Operations Command, Force Recon was the Marine Corps' version of special ops. They were highly trained, with expertise in combat diving, parachuting, survival in a wide variety of climates, communications, infiltration and extraction, a plethora of foreign languages, and a host of other esoteric military specialties. Their missions included amphibious and land-based assaults, reconnaissance, and counterterrorism operations.

Generally speaking, attempting to ambush a Force Recon Marine, even a former one, was considered a very bad idea.

Hartley wasn't sympathetic. "So?"

"So, you expect us to kidnap a Recon Marine? Those guys'll spot us coming a mile off."

"That's your problem."

"Dorsett's right," Slater put in coolly. "There might be insurmountable difficulties to achieving the objective. We won't be able to just snatch one of them off the street."

"So get creative. That's why I called you three," Hartley snapped, out of patience. "I'm giving you complete access to their files. You should be able to come up with a workable plan. I expect results within the next forty-eight hours."

"And if neither of the targets are accessible within the allotted time?" Slater asked. "They might be off-world, you know. Any alternates we can choose from?"

Hartley hadn't thought of that problem. He considered it for a moment. "You can review whatever SGC dossiers you want. There were a few other people he worked with that might do. The rotation rate on his team was pretty high, since they spent a lot of time in combat—hell, even he rotated off on occasion. Olmstead can help you pick out an appropriate alternate target."

"Okay." Slater nodded. He drawled, "I'm sure we'll be able to scrounge up someone suitable out of their roster. As long as you're aware this mystery hostage might not be on your A-list."

Hartley ground his teeth at the man's studied nonchalance, and at Dorsett's coarse, unpleasant laughter. He hated dealing with mercenaries, preferring instead to delegate that task to military subordinates such as Olmstead. Then he shrugged mentally. If things worked out the way he planned, he'd be rid of Slater and Dorsett soon enough.

"That's fine," he said agreeably. "You've got your assignment. Get moving."


	5. Chapter 5

As its unimaginative name implied, "Joe's Bar and Grill" was the kind of good, old-fashioned place where a body could get a decent burger, a pitcher of brew, and, if one so desired, indulge in a friendly game of darts or pool. Another of its virtues was that it lacked the constantly blaring satellite TV common to so many bars these days, which kept the environment remarkably calm and stress-free. It was clean, reasonably well kept, and comfortable in general.

Major Carter leaned back in her chair, took a sip of beer, and thought to herself that this had actually been a pretty good idea. SG-1 had had a rough week of exasperating paperwork—which they often found more stressful than the actual missions—so Colonel O'Neill had suggested checking out this bar. He'd heard good things about it from some of the other team leaders—in fact, it was SG-3's favorite haunt these days—and wanted to give it a try. Teal'c had opted out, preferring instead to recharge his batteries by meditating, but Daniel and Carter had agreed to the "civvies-only" outing. Two cheeseburgers, one chili burger with the works, and a pitcher of beer later, all were in agreement that "Joe's" was a pretty okay place to hang out.

Across the room, Sergeant Carmichael of SG-3 leaned across one of the bar's two pool tables and lined up a shot, while Captain Johnson looked on in resignation. Carmichael's elbow moved, there was the sharp sound of the cue striking the cue ball, followed by several clinks and then the dull thunking noises of balls dropping off the table into the pockets. Johnson groaned but conceded defeat. Apparently Carmichael was as good a shot at pool as he was with an M16.

Lieutenant Colonel Warren, SG-3's team leader, slapped Johnson on the back in sympathy and arrogantly hitched up his blue jeans. Johnson shook his head and moved aside, allowing his CO to take his place. He stood next to Sergeant Andrews, watching the new match with amusement. Both Marines clearly expected Carmichael to clean Warren out.

O'Neill watched the pool game for a bit, then turned back to his companions. "I think 'Joe's' merits a return trip, don't you?"

"You know, I was expecting a real dive, but this place is nice." Daniel set down his glass and added with a sly smile, "Looks like you had a good idea for once, Jack."

Too mellowed out to take offense, O'Neill merely said, "I aim to please," and took a big bite out of his chili burger.

Someone fired up an old Springsteen tune on the jukebox. Carter contentedly watched the pool game. As expected, Warren was losing. "You know," she reminisced, "I used to play a pretty mean game of pool. What you guys saw at O'Malley's was nothing."

"Don't tell me you're a shark even without the superpowers, Carter," O'Neill said with amused interest.

She shrugged in a self-deprecating manner. "I won a lunch or two in college."

O'Neill and Daniel exchanged a knowing glance. "Shark," the pair chorused in almost perfect unison.

Carter looked innocent and raised her glass to her lips, taking a long swig of her beer.

"So you actually won that pool game back at O'Malley's fair and square?" Daniel asked. "Anise's little toy didn't have anything to do with it?"

Carter stared down her nose at him in mock affront, then ruined the effect by smirking.

"Right." Daniel smiled.

"Learn something new every day." O'Neill snorted. "Ya gonna go take on Carmichael? Looks like he needs to be knocked down a peg or two," he said. "Warren and Johnson'll probably thank you for it."

Carter stifled a grin at the idea. "Oh, I don't know," she demurred, seriously tempted.

Colonel O'Neill had a look on his face that told her he saw right through her, but was willing to play along. He leaned across the round table and opened his mouth to offer what she assumed would be some kind of inducement, when a loud argument broke out between a couple of the bar's patrons. Every head in the place swiveled toward the small fracas. Even the pool game was put on hold.

The anticipation was palpable.

"There's always gotta be someone," O'Neill groused. "I'm really not in the mood for a fight tonight."

"What makes you think there's going to be a fight?" Daniel asked. "They're just arguing."

"You're kidding, right? Remember how we got banned from O'Malley's, Mister Can't-Let-It-Go?"

Daniel shut up.

A third man approached the two antagonists. He tried to talk to them, gesturing in a placating manner. In response, both shouters swung at him. Both connected. The third man fell back against a table, knocking several pitchers of beer and a number of glasses into the laps of its occupants. Five annoyed and beer-drenched men the size of lumberjacks stood up with balled fists.

"Fuck," O'Neill muttered.

As though spurred by some telepathic command, the bar's patrons sprang into action. Pandemonium reined. The room filled with bellowed profanities, flailing fists, stumbling bodies, and flying furniture. Glassware shattered against the walls. Through the din, Carter shouted, "We need to get out of here!"

"Right with ya, Carter! Come on, Daniel, let's move."

As she pushed her chair back and stood, Carter noticed SG-3 skirting the edge of the room toward the door. They must have had the same bright idea as she had. That they hadn't joined in on the fun surprised her, but then she recalled the trouble they'd gotten into last month for brawling, and figured they were still smarting from the dressing-down they'd received from General Hammond. Discretion really was the better part of valor, at least at the SGC.

Suddenly, a large man grabbed Warren and slugged him in the face. The Marine staggered back and crashed into SG-1's table, then fell awkwardly to the floor. The rest of his team immediately layed into the man's buddies.

Warren half-sprawled on the ground and rubbed his bleeding mouth, groaning. An enraged roar made him look up. The other man came at him, clearly intent on further mayhem.

"Oh, no you don't!" O'Neill leapt over Warren and tackled the attacker around the waist, his momentum carrying them both across the room, knocking chairs and upturned tables aside.

"This is insane!" Daniel shouted. "Jack!" His cry was choked off when an enthusiastic brawler grabbed him by the collar.

Someone latched onto Carter's wrist and swung her around, sending her careening to the opposite side of the bar. She slammed into a door. When her head stopped spinning, she looked up and saw it was an emergency exit. Exactly what she needed. She couldn't just make her getaway and leave Daniel behind, though. Colonel O'Neill could fend for himself; he was a veteran at this sort of thing.

Carter heard distant sirens approaching. The cops, on their way to break up the brawl. She had to find Daniel—okay, and the colonel, too, if she could drag him away—and get out of the bar before they all got arrested. As she slewed around, she came face to face with one of the original combatants. Her eyes widened. "Oh, my God," she gasped in recognition. "You— You're Olmstead—"

"Damnation!" Olmstead took advantage of her momentary surprise and caught her on the chin with a strong right cross. As she reeled from the blow, she heard him yelling, barely making himself heard over the cacophony of the fight, "Take her! Take her!"

Someone grabbed her from behind and dragged her into an alcove. Even as she struggled, Olmstead pressed a pungent cloth against her face. The world spun in dizzying circles, and the sights and sounds of the bar brawl faded away into nothingness.


	6. Chapter 6

Daniel heaved a depressed sigh and leaned against the bars, staring out at the empty jail cell across the way and considering this new low in his life. Spending the night in the drunk tank with Jack and the Marines. Could the evening get any worse?

Behind him, he heard Jack and Warren exchanging a few choice pleasantries. Every so often, Andrews or Carmichael would chime in with a pithy comment about where officers kept their brains, and naturally the officers in question would retaliate in kind. Didn't they ever get tired of that nonsense? Johnson had the right idea; he was sacked out on a bench, snoring loudly. As soon as the cops had dumped them in their cell, he'd staked his claim and stretched out, ignoring everyone and everything, and dropped off to sleep within minutes. No stranger to bar brawls and their consequences, that one.

It just wasn't fair. Neither of their two groups had even started that damned fight. In fact, they'd all managed to stay uninvolved for a remarkably long time. Almost thirty whole seconds. Until that jerk had sucker-punched Warren and knocked him halfway across the room, right into SG-1's table. All bets were off from that moment on.

While Jack and the Marines had joined the fray with gusto, he and Sam had tried to stay out of it. That was, until someone had grabbed him and attempted to toss him over the table. The skills the rest of his team had pounded into him over the years had come to the fore. Who could blame him for defending himself? Daniel was secretly pleased that he'd made such a good showing. Especially without superpowers.

Of course, the shiner he'd acquired in the process wasn't much fun. Not to mention blurry vision, as his glasses had been an early casualty of the altercation.

When the humorless cops locked them up, Jack had insisted, in his usual vocal and abrasive style, on his one phone call. After a few exasperated shrugs, a policeman had grudgingly led him away. He returned a very subdued colonel. Daniel almost would have said "whipped." Jack informed everyone that they were going to sleep here in jail tonight, and maybe—he put a depressingly excessive emphasis on that word—just maybe, someone would collect them in the morning.

Daniel wondered exactly what Hammond had said to him. Nothing very polite, he was sure.

While Jack and Warren continued to snipe at one another, Daniel spared a thought for Sam. He hadn't seen her since the cops had arrived at "Joe's." In fact, he couldn't remember seeing her for most of the fight, either. Well, he'd been a little preoccupied, so that was understandable. She was probably in the women's lock-up. Daniel figured she hadn't managed to escape, otherwise she'd have bailed them out by now. Right? Or was she just so disgusted with their behavior that, like General Hammond, she was willing to let them stew overnight?

Nah. Sam would get them out if she was able. Although, really, it was a moot point at best. Daniel seriously doubted the cops would be willing to take bail in the middle of the night.

"I'm going to bed," Jack suddenly announced. He sat on a bench and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes and depriving Warren of a viable target.

Good. Maybe now they'd get some peace and quiet.

At just that moment, the cops brought in a group of five somewhat disheveled young men that Jack would no doubt characterize as juvenile delinquents. In actuality, Daniel figured they were just college kids who'd done nothing more serious than get hammered and go out on a tear. The cops put them in the opposite cell and walked away.

The new group was noisy and boisterous, and didn't seem to mind being stuck in the slammer. One hung out the bars and called to Daniel, "Dude, what're you guys in for?"

"Drunk and disorderly, public nuisance, destruction of private property," Daniel recited, feeling his ears heat a little at the embarrassing admission. What was he coming to? Two bar brawls in one year. He wondered how long this one would stay on his record.

"Huh?" The college kid's eyes were actually crossing.

Andrews joined Daniel at the bars. "That means we got in a bar fight with a bunch of losers," he explained.

"Man, old guys like you still party like that?" The kid turned to his buddies. "Hey, dudes, there's hope for life after thirty, after all! Those old guys over there still got it." The other four kids pressed up against the bars, hooting and cheering raucously, like they were at a basketball game or something.

Andrews rolled his eyes and wandered off toward a bench. Daniel sighed again. It was going to be a long night.


	7. Chapter 7

Carter awoke with her arms cuffed behind her back, a dark, musty hood over her head, and a splitting headache from the chloroform those goons had gassed her with. She sat quietly, feeling the thrumming all around her. The floors and walls vibrated with the deep, familiar sound. She was on an airplane in flight, of that she was certain.

Over the noise from the engines, she heard voices, men chatting and laughing about inconsequential trivia—the big game last Sunday, an arm-wrestling contest, a kick-ass bar fight.

Bastards.

She had been kidnapped. But who would want to kidnap her? The image of a face floated through her mind.

Olmstead.

More correctly, Lieutenant James Olmstead, USAF, formerly of the NID. He had been part of the NID's illegal off-world acquisitions team, brought back to Earth by Colonel O'Neill with the assistance of the Asgard, and supposedly shipped off to a nice, quiet jail cell.

Apparently not.

She had never paid much attention to what had happened to the NID's people after Colonel O'Neill's sting was complete. Like everyone else, she had just assumed they had been dealt with through the appropriate channels. Some of them, she knew, had ended up in prison, although now she wondered if that hadn't just been a smoke screen. Certainly it looked like the NID had intervened and reclaimed at least one of its own.

That still didn't explain why they wanted to kidnap her. She could swear that Olmstead had been as surprised and displeased to see her as she was to see him. Yet the chloroform they had used on her indicated that kidnapping had been on their agenda, with the brawl started to provide both a distraction and cover for the operation. Olmstead and his cohorts had been after someone.

She wondered who.

Her ears clogged up. She popped them automatically, registering the fact that the plane must be descending. A short while later, it bounced a few times as it landed, then taxied down the runway.

Hard hands gripped her arms and pulled her to her feet. "Come on, doll, let's go," a coarse voice ordered.

She was taken off the plane. The air was cool, wherever she was. She could feel the chill through her light blouse and jeans. Her captors walked her forward, then her head was pushed down and she was shoved onto a cushioned surface. A body shifted in next to her, and a car door slammed.

Okay, now she was in a car. A few seconds later it became a moving car.

She wished her kidnappers would take off the hood. She could breathe, but the air was stuffy and unpleasant. Of course, no one did any such thing. They drove for at least half an hour before coming to a stop.

Her captors pulled her from the car and marched her forward. The outdoor sounds of insects chirping ceased with another slamming door. The floor beneath her feet felt like linoleum, but she couldn't be sure. Then she was stopped again, heard a humming and felt her stomach lurch. An elevator, going down.

The elevator doors opened with their characteristic sliding sound, and again she was pushed forward. Another door was opened. She was shoved through. Hands grabbed her as she stumbled, kept her upright. They remained on her arms, holding her in place.

"What the hell is this?" an angry male voice snapped. Yup, that clinched it. She hadn't been the intended target.

The hood was yanked off. Carter stared up defiantly. The man who faced her was fiftyish and elegantly dressed, with iron gray hair and the coldest eyes she had ever seen. "Who are you people?" she demanded. "Why have you kidnapped me?"

The man looked furious. Carter felt her spirit quail a little at his murderous expression. His wrath was palpable, radiating off him in crimson waves of pure intimidation. She took a deep breath and wrestled her fear down.

"Look," she said, putting as much force into her voice as possible, "I don't know what's going on or why I'm here, but if you know what's good for you, you'll release me immediately."

The man ignored her. "You idiots!" he shouted at Olmstead and the other thugs. "I told you I wanted one of his old teammates. And you bring me Carter, of all people?"

Carter caught her breath. This man knew exactly who she was. Her suspicions were confirmed; it had to be the NID. But what the hell were they after? It was clear that she hadn't been the original target of this botched kidnapping. The leader had mentioned someone's "old teammates." Whose? Someone from the SGC? It sounded like it. She thought hard, trying to remember who was gone at present. Castleman and his team were all on leave, so no one would notice for a while if any of them went missing. "Joe's" was a common hangout for SGC personnel. Maybe the kidnappers had expected to find them there?

The man continued to rant, "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

"We couldn't get one of the other guys," Olmstead said, a defensive whine creeping into his tone. "I figured this was the next best thing. Besides, she recognized me. We couldn't let her—"

"Moron! Cretin!"

"What's the problem, Hartley?" a large and ugly goon piped up. "You wanted someone he worked with. Well, she was on one of his teams for a little while."

She was? Carter cast her mind back. Okay, it was someone she'd worked with before, apparently on a temporary basis. That left a lot of territory to cover. Like Daniel, she occasionally provided expertise to other SG teams. She also often collaborated with the on-base science and engineering teams. Maybe that was it. Now, who was missing from the base scientific staff?

Hartley gaped at the goon with comical disbelief. He shook his head disgustedly. "Of all the stupid— They never could stand each other! How the fu—"

"Sir? We tried our best, sir," Olmstead said, attempting to placate his angry superior. "It just didn't work out."

"We did warn you it might be a problem," a more confident thug spoke out. This one had the hardened look of a mercenary about him. "Besides, you shouldn't have sent that jerk along," he aimed his thumb at Olmstead, who glared at him, "if there was even the slightest chance that he'd be recognized. Looks like there's more than enough blame to go around."

Hartley looked like he wanted to spit. Instead, he visibly reined in his temper. After a few tense moments, he relaxed and stroked his chin as though considering his options. "I suppose she might do well enough," he said slowly. "At least he knows her. A lot of men get knee-jerk reactions about chivalry and crap when a woman is involved. It's part of our cultural baggage." He sneered. "Go ahead and put her in with him. We'll let 'em get reacquainted, and then we'll see."

Now Carter was really confused. Who were they talking about? Someone she disliked, obviously, who also wasn't too crazy about her. She couldn't remember anyone like that. There were a few people she didn't rub along with, but they'd always managed to maintain a professional attitude about their work.

The mercenary and the big, ugly goon grabbed her arms. She attempted to shake them off, but their grips were like iron. "Look, you're making a mistake! I demand—"

Hartley slapped her across the face. "You're in no position to be making demands, Carter. Now, just shut up and behave, and you might live a few more days."

Carter felt blood trickle from her mouth. She glared at her tormentor, speechless at the threat. A few more days? That implied...

The goons hustled her out the door.


	8. Chapter 8

After that oh-so-charming interview with the head honcho, Carter was marched down an interminably long, concrete hallway by the goon squad. Even if she hadn't been handcuffed and underground in an unknown location, escape wouldn't have been more than a pipe dream. She was flanked by the mercenary and the ugly goon, each gripping her arms securely. Olmstead trailed behind, M16 at the ready.

Near the end of the corridor, the entourage halted at a heavy metal door. Olmstead moved forward, unlocked the door and pulled it open. The room was pitch black inside. The stench of stale sweat, excrement, and vomit wafted out. Carter tried not to gag.

"Smells like the kennel needs cleaning," the mercenary commented with no concern whatsoever. With a shrug, Olmstead touched a wall control. The room flooded with light. The goons forced Carter through the door.

The illumination revealed a windowless cement cell. The reeking air was just a shade too cool to be comfortable. A small air vent opened where the adjacent wall met the ceiling; further toward the center a bare light bulb dangled. A stinking bucket and a roll of toilet paper stood in the corner nearest the door. A second bucket, filled with water, rested against the far wall, a few paper cups sitting next to it. And in the opposite corner was the huddled figure of a man.

The prisoner was filthy, his tee shirt stained with sweat, blood, and who knew what else. His denim jeans were equally stained, and his feet were bare. His legs were pulled up to his chest; his arms, dotted with cigarette burns, crossed over his knees. Twin bracelets of bruises and raw sores encircled his wrists. His head was bowed so that his brow rested on his forearms.

"Hey, wake up, dumbass," the big, ugly goon yelled at him. He moved closer and gave the prisoner a hard nudge with his foot. "Ya got company."

The man flinched away, then slowly lifted his face, squinting against the unaccustomed brightness. His features were distorted and covered with bruises that stood out even against the week-old growth of beard on his face. One blue eye was almost completely swollen shut, its white cornea filled with the brilliant crimson that accompanied a broken capillary. In spite of his battered appearance, Carter recognized him immediately. All awareness of the vile odors in the cell fled in the wake of shock.

"Colonel Makepeace," she whispered, stunned. He stared back at her, clearly aghast. Carter's thoughts scurried, and everything fell into place. SG-3 had been at "Joe's." That was who Olmstead and the goons had been after: someone from SG-3. Probably Johnson or Andrews—they had both served with Makepeace. It was just sheer bad luck that she'd gotten in the way.

Makepeace said in a hoarse voice, "I don't believe it. What's she doing here?"

"Hartley thought you were lonely, so he got ya a friend. Wasn't that nice of him?" the big goon sneered.

"He picked the wrong friend." Makepeace turned his head away. "Get her out of here."

"Don't worry, doll-face," the big goon grunted cheerfully at Carter. "I don't think he dislikes you near as much as he wants us to think. I think," he added, laughing at his poorly constructed joke.

Although she couldn't watch his face, Carter thought Makepeace's body tensed. Whether that was due to the pain from his injuries or what the ugly bastard had said, she couldn't be certain. His next words, though, startled her.

"You can't really believe I'll talk to one of Hartley's plants." Makepeace turned his head and focused his eyes on Carter's face, scrutinizing her as though she were a bug on a pin. "I admit, the makeup or surgery is superb, but I ain't buying it."

"Too bad, pal, 'cause she's here to stay."

Makepeace insisted, "It's a trick."

"Tough shit, loser. She's staying." The goon removed the cuffs from Carter's wrists and gave her a hard shove forward, then stepped out of the cell. The door slammed shut. The lock clicked loudly. The finality of that sound echoed in Carter's ears.

Although she knew it was futile, she still had to check the lock. A quick look revealed a very unpalatable fact: There wasn't even a handle on this side of the door, much less any access to the locking mechanism. She was here to stay. Clenching and unclenching her fists, she turned around and faced her roommate.

For a long, breathless moment, the pair stared at one another. Then Makepeace heaved a weary sigh and broke the stalemate, saying, "I wondered why they were leaving me alone."

"Colonel Makepeace," Carter said. "I mean— Ah..." She stopped, flustered, not certain how to address him, or if she should even speak to him at all.

"It's still colonel." At her raised brows, he shrugged and added dryly, "The NID found the rank useful."

Carter felt a sneer coming on. "I'm sure they did."

Makepeace acted like he hadn't heard the sarcasm. He regarded her with a perplexed expression. "I don't get it. Why you?"

"What, you mean you actually believe I'm me?" she asked, with a tiny curl of her lip.

He rolled his eyes, the show of whites making a startling contrast against the purpled bruises. "Fuck, Carter, no plastic surgery is that good or that fast. I just said that to piss off those bastards."

His tone irritated her. Bad enough that she'd been kidnapped and tossed into a cell with a traitor, but condescension from that same traitor was just too much. She pressed her lips together, wanting to respond in kind, but instead deciding to ignore his comment and stick with facts. She needed information, and at present Makepeace was the only game in town. "To answer your question, I think I'm here because of a mistake."

"A mistake?"

"They didn't want me. They wanted someone from your old team," she replied, watching him closely.

A haunted look flickered over Makepeace's bruised features, was gone so quickly that Carter wondered if she had imagined it, until she saw the tension around his eyes. "How do you know that?" he demanded.

Carter uttered a humorless laugh. "Hartley said so, right to my face." She explained about the bar fight, and how she had been in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and had made the mistake of recognizing the wrong person. "I guess they decided to get while the getting was good," she finished, "and didn't want to go back empty-handed, or leave anyone behind who could identify them."

"Ah, hell," Makepeace sighed. "What a cluster-fuck. Typical of those morons." He dropped his forehead to his knees.

Carter crossed her arms and paced back and forth across the cell. "According to that so-charming gentleman, Hartley, apparently I'll 'do' well enough. It seems 'a lot of men get knee-jerk reactions about chivalry and crap when a woman is involved,'" she parroted. "Cultural baggage, and all." The words dripped venom.

He lifted his head at that. Something flashed in his eyes, too quickly for Carter to identify. "Is that so?" he said quietly.

"What, that you might have a few shreds of basic human decency lurking in your upright soul?"

"That's enough, Carter," he snapped.

Carter stopped in front of him and put her hands on her hips. "You ordering me to shut up? Sir?" she added with nasty sarcasm, glaring down her nose at him.

"Shit, Carter—"

"Now there's a clever rejoinder."

"'Rejoinder,' huh?" He shot her a disdainful glare. "I see you haven't changed any. Still using the ten dollar words as an intimidation tactic. Or maybe you just like making people feel inferior."

She stared at him, mouth hanging open, taken aback by the unfairness of the charge. Whether he realized it or not, Makepeace had hit on a sore spot, something she'd been accused of off and on her entire life by her less articulate and precision-minded peers. "I use the words best suited for the subject at hand," she said defensively. "Dumbing down my speech would be counterproductive."

He laughed harshly. "There you go again with that crap," he said as pulled himself to his feet and leaned against the wall. "Shit, you don't even realize you do it, do you? Christ."

"Nobody's ever complained before." Well, no, that wasn't true, but she wasn't going to admit it to him. However, nobody she'd worked with recently had ever made that complaint, except for Colonel O'Neill, and even he'd never thought she was deliberately looking down her nose at him. She hoped. "Maybe you're just slow," Carter added with deliberate nastiness. "Most people can handle words with more than two syllables."

"Well, that sure puts me in my place," he growled with undisguised contempt. "That kind of thing is exactly what I'm talking about, Carter. Admit it, you get a kick out of flaunting your brains and putting people down."

"Oh, this is just too funny. I can't believe I'm getting chewed out for bad behavior by a * _traitor_.*"

It was his turn to be rendered speechless. His jaw worked, like he was grinding his teeth.

Carter felt grimly satisfied. "Don't like the T-word?" she taunted. "That's just too bad, isn't it? Did you expect anyone to be grateful for what you did? You betrayed all of us, you bastard. While we were out working our butts off to convince advanced races to ally with us, or at least not side with the Goa'uld, there you were, stabbing us in the back all along."

Contempt flashed into hate. Then a hard, cold mask fell over his face. "I did what I had to," he said, his voice low and intense.

"What you had to? You and your damned friends almost ruined everything we'd all worked so hard for. Jail's too good for turncoats like you, you should've fried, but the government doesn't do that anymore, does it? No, these days it's lethal injection or life—"

"Go fuck yourself, you stupid cunt!" he snarled.

Something inside her snapped. In outrage, she brought up a fist to belt him one. Makepeace stiffened.

His reaction doused her anger like a bucket of ice water. What the hell was she doing? Had she really intended to hit an injured man in response to a verbal insult? She looked at him; he stared back with a stoic expression, and she felt an odd rush of pity. Probably every spark of defiance he'd shown his captors had been met with a beating. She lowered her arm and unclenched her fingers.

Resentment flared in his eyes. He turned away, deliberately ignoring her, and sat down again in his corner. He stared at the far wall.

She ground her teeth. So much for getting information from the only game in town. What was wrong with her, fighting with Makepeace, taking her fear and frustration out on him like that? Sure, everything she'd said was true, but he'd obviously had a hard time here. Now she'd be lucky if she got word one out of him before Hartley did...whatever it was he was going to do.

Damn, she was still too upset to reason clearly. Makepeace had the right idea; a time out was in order. She retreated to the opposite corner, sat down, folded her arms over her knees, and glared at him, still fuming.


	9. Chapter 9

What seemed like an eternity passed in uncomfortable silence. Carter stared across the room at her fellow prisoner. Makepeace had rested his forehead on his knees again. His face was hidden from her, and he was motionless. She wondered if he was asleep.

She remembered the first time they had gone on a mission together, to The Land of Light. In the gateroom, on his way to the ramp, Makepeace had shoved her out of his way as though she were nothing, just a nuisance, an obstacle. She'd muttered about that for days. Even now, years later, it still rankled.

Stupid jarhead.

She sat longer, letting her annoyance simmer down into the background cauldron of other, more immediate emotions. For balance, she made herself remember another time, when he'd led a combined force of four SG teams—a mere sixteen men—to break SG-1 out of Hathor's stronghold. He had to have known it was the next best thing to a suicide mission, they all had, but they had gone anyway.

And when it all fell apart, when what remained of the strike force was hiding in the Tok'ra tunnels beneath the pyramid, seemingly out of options, they'd sat down and powwowed. Incredibly, he'd followed her recommendations, even to the point of letting her run around Hathor's base all by herself, something that even now she had to admit showed how desperate they'd all been.

He'd lost over half his men on that one, but due to several remarkable and implausible strokes of luck the mission had ended in success.

This was the man who'd turned traitor. It was hard to reconcile. The SOB who'd casually shoved her aside and made obnoxious comments to her own CO, she could easily believe it of him. The self-sacrificing hero who was willing to lay down his life for a comrade? That was much, much harder.

Then again, maybe that mission's terrible losses had been what pushed him over the edge.

She looked at him again, and thought about the fight. They'd both said some unforgivable things, words designed not just to anger or insult, but to hurt, to tear and maim. Words that kept them both silent, unwilling to speak to each other. Words that made it hard for her to examine the fight's structure analytically. And that, she realized suddenly, was exactly the point.

When she'd first been dumped in here, in this cell, with Makepeace and leering threats from their captors, her emotions had been running on overdrive. She'd been angry and terrified, not thinking clearly, spoiling for a fight, any excuse to vent and rage. And Makepeace had obliged, hadn't he?

Well, now things were different. She was still afraid, but the anger had faded, leaving her in a more rational state of mind. She saw the way he'd steered the argument, pricking at a long-standing sore spot and letting things take their natural course. The more she considered the idea, the more she believed it. Makepeace had never had a problem like that with her before. He wasn't any more enamored of techie jargon than Colonel O'Neill was, but he had never before given the slightest indication that he believed she spoke as she did out of malicious intent.

Besides, it wasn't like he was an uneducated rube. The man was a commissioned officer with at least a master's degree, for heaven's sake. He understood the "ten dollar words" perfectly fine, even if the arcane math and astrophysics went over his head.

So, it came down to the fact that he'd deliberately picked a fight with her. Why?

The answer came quickly; Hartley had already given it to her. Hartley had expected her presence to soften Makepeace up, feel protective of her because she was female. Perhaps even because he knew and had worked with her professionally. She nodded to herself. The fight had happened soon after she'd told him about that.

She gave Makepeace another glance, speculative this time. He must believe the cell was bugged, to put on that kind of a show. Basically, he'd reinforced his earlier words to their captors, that she wouldn't be an effective tool to use against him. She supposed it was a nice try, but she doubted it would really make much difference in the long run.

In any case, she couldn't let the silence go on. Not if she wanted to find out what was going on, and somehow find a way to escape. She was realistic enough to understand she needed Makepeace's help for that. She wouldn't be getting out by her lone efforts. Makepeace was a highly trained pro; if it were possible for a single person to escape, he wouldn't still be sitting here in this cell.

Anyway, if she wanted to gain information and maybe even an ally, Makepeace was still the only game in town.

He'd had long enough to sulk, she decided. She got up, walked across the room, and sat down cross-legged beside him. His head stayed down, his breathing even, but some sixth sense told her he wasn't really asleep. "Why are you locked up in here?" she asked quietly.

He didn't move, didn't acknowledge her presence, but she saw him tense. He was awake, all right.

"Why are your supposed friends," she worked to keep the knee-jerk sneer out of her voice, "doing this to you?"

No response.

"I guess it just shows the old saying is true. There really is no honor among thieves."

Hmmm, she thought, maybe that had been a little too provocative. Comments like that weren't likely to get him on her side. Not that it seemed to matter; other than a slight twitch at that last insult, Makepeace still hadn't bothered to acknowledge her presence.

"Come on, it's obvious they've tortured you. Why show any loyalty to them?"

Back to no response at all. Not even a twitch this time.

She persisted. "I know you're awake. You may as well talk to me. I'm not going to shut up just because you want me to. You should remember what I'm like. You know I can keep this up for as long as it takes."

At that threat, Makepeace heaved a weary sigh, lifted his head, and glared at her.

"Well, what do you know?" she said. "It lives."

Makepeace looked exasperated. "I've got nothing to say to you, and if you've got even a fraction of the brains everyone claims, you'll knock it off before you make things even worse for yourself."

That sounded like a warning. Not that it mattered; she already knew Hartley intended to use her against Makepeace, and that was sure to include physical abuse as well as the psychological games. She wouldn't think about that just yet. Instead, she looked up and around, not expecting to see anything, since any microphones or cameras would be hidden. Her non-verbal point made, she moved her eyes back to his face. At least he was talking again. "I take it this cell is bugged?"

He rolled his eyes. "Undoubtedly."

At least he'd given her an answer, ill-tempered though it was.

"Then we'll just have to be careful what we talk about," she remarked.

More silence.

Now it was Carter's turn to roll her eyes, but she kept a tight rein on her temper.

This was going to get old fast. She tried again. "At least tell me where I am." Still no response. "Come on," she cajoled, "it can't hurt to tell me that, can it?"

Makepeace blew out a deep breath. "Montana," he said tonelessly, looking more beaten down than Carter liked. She didn't relish the role of interrogator, and wished he weren't so damnably stubborn. "The outskirts of Eddington, if you want to get specific."

"Eddington...Montana?" she repeated. Well, that accounted for the plane ride. "Why here?"

"Because it's isolated, of course. And because there was an abandoned strip mining operation already here, complete with office space and other facilities for the NID to take over and set up shop in."

"Set up shop? What are they doing here?"

A look of chagrin flashed across his face. "You don't need to know, Carter." He focused his gaze on the floor and clammed up, ignoring her again.

This was like pulling teeth. She stared at him, thinking. He obviously wanted her to get off his back. Of course he didn't want to talk. He'd survived by keeping his mouth shut. She understood why he didn't want to break his habit of silence, but damn it, she needed information if she was going to figure a way out of this mess. To do that, she needed to capture his attention, shake him out of this defeatist wallowing.

"So," she said casually, trying an oblique approach, "you've been living in Eddington."

Silence.

"You've been working here, right? In this building?"

Makepeace didn't say anything, but he did offer a disinterested shrug to that. She took it as confirmation, and asked the question she'd been leading up to: "I imagine you know the layout of this place pretty well, huh?"

That got a reaction. Makepeace's head shot up. He looked at her with an unreadable expression, and shook his head minutely, telling her not to discuss the idea any further.

She stared at him with an unwavering gaze. "I need to talk," she said, enunciating each word.

He snorted, and an enigmatic smile ghosted across his lips. "So what's new?"

She ignored that. "I want to know what's going on here. I'm involved now."

His smile vanished. For a moment, she was afraid she'd lost him again. She pressed, "The bad guys aren't going to take it easy on me just because I'm ignorant, you know. I deserve to know what's going on. I know you won't tell me whatever it is that Hartley wants from you, but can't you let me in on the stuff he already knows?"

Would he buy the excuses and misdirection she offered? Would he share information in return for help getting out of here? Or was he too far gone, too beaten down to even consider the idea of escape? She counted the seconds as Makepeace stared at her. An interesting plethora of emotions flickered across his face: anger, frustration, regret, apology, guilt, speculation. Finally, he nodded, making some kind of internal decision.

"What do you know about zero point energy?" he said without preamble.

She felt relief that he'd accepted her bargain, then astonishment at what he'd said. He couldn't be serious, could he? That's what they were working on here? It was ridiculous.

Makepeace's face was expressionless, revealing nothing. She fell back on her old habit of babbling, which usually gave her time to think things through, both the science and any other issues that needed considering. "It's a well-known theory. According to quantum electrodynamics, a vacuum isn't really empty, but has an energy density. In theory, it's full of quantum fluctuations of particle and antiparticle pairs that briefly come into existence by borrowing, as it were, energy from the vacuum, then annihilate one another, thus returning the borrowed energy back to the vacuum. These processes are theorized to be ongoing in any vacuum, even at a temperature of absolute zero, the point at which molecular motion ceases, so the energy must also exist even at absolute zero. Hence the term zero-point energy."

He didn't say anything, just nodded, never taking his eyes off her.

His scrutiny made her nervous. Carter wondered at the way he was allowing her to babble on. In her recollection, Makepeace was about as patient with that sort of thing as Colonel O'Neill.

She stole a glance at him. He was motionless, sitting with his back to the wall. Listening, apparently. Was he stalling, perhaps? Why? Curious now, she went on, "ZPE proponents are convinced that there is a near infinite amount of energy available in the vacuum, if only we could tap into it. However, most reputable scientists theorize that the vacuum energy density is negligible, on the order of six times ten to the minus thirtieth grams per cubic centimeter, and thus impractical to attempt to extract."

Makepeace held up a hand, and she subsided with some relief. He stated flatly, "Your 'reputable scientists' are wrong."

"About practical ZPE?" Carter allowed her face to reflect her skepticism at that outrageous idea. "They're working on it here? But how? No one on Earth even begins to understand—" She stopped dead, remembering who she was talking to, and what he had been involved in. No one on Earth knew how to extract vacuum energy, but one of the advanced extraterrestrial races obviously did.

"Who'd the NID steal it from?" she asked.

Makepeace smiled humorlessly. "The Asgard. We weren't able to bring a functional model home, but Lieutenant Tobias remembered enough from her investigations into the technology to try to rig a ZPE extractor. She's almost got it working."

"My God, that's incredible." The ramifications knocked all other considerations out of her head.

"Oh, yeah, it's that all right," he said dryly.

"So that's what they're doing here." She gnawed on a fingernail. "In this old mine..."

"Well, it's not here anymore. The NID moves the operation wholesale every so often, but while it lasted this was one of the better sites. They only had to make a few minor alterations to the existing structures. Such as this cell. It's a converted storage room." He gestured around at the bare, concrete walls. "Anyway, the mine's a Superfund site—the NID used the cleanup as their cover. They were doing a pretty good job at it, too."

That startled her. "A good job," she echoed incredulously. "At a mine cleanup."

"Whoever said the NID isn't good for anything?"

Carter did a double-take at his choice of words. She leaned back against the wall. Carefully keeping her gaze focused on the ceiling, she said, "You sound bitter."

"No kidding."

Carter kept silent for a while. Then she said thoughtfully, "Then this project must be why the NID got some of its team out of jail."

Makepeace gave her an incredulous look. "You people never figured it out, did you? That's the whole reason the NID arranged to have that particular team brought home. So Tobias could build them their little toy."

"What are you talking about? You were all caught red-handed in a sting set up by General Hammond and Colonel O'Neill..." Her voice trailed off at his cynical expression. "No. A setup within a setup?"

"Now you're thinking." He made a "keep going" expression with one hand.

"Then that means..." She paused briefly, gazing at a point about one foot from her nose. "...that means when Jack—Colonel O'Neill—went undercover to expose the NID's off-world operations..."

"He played right into their hands," Makepeace finished for her. "The actual ZPE extractor was too large for me to ferry back in my ruck. The only way for the NID to get their hands on a working model was to have Tobias build it for them. The only way to get her back here was through a Stargate, and the only Stargate available for use was at the SGC. You do the math."

"Maybourne set the whole thing up," she breathed. "He deliberately sacrificed his team."

Makepeace said, "He sent them into a few unfortunate situations, just so there would be complaints." He uttered a short bark of laughter. "You know, I don't think the expendable ones ever figured out what really went on, either. I'm willing to bet the poor bastards the NID left in jail still think it was just plain old bad luck that the Asgard and the Tollan twigged to them, rather than some goddamned, Machiavellian scheme."

"And it worked perfectly," Carter said softly. "Some of the team stayed in custody, but others disappeared into the system."

"Including me," Makepeace said, cocking his head at her in cynical amusement. "I'm actually surprised it worked so well. Maybourne played such a fool that I still can't believe anyone fell for it. The idea that anyone would be stupid enough to hand command of an important team like that to a new recruit of uncertain loyalty and an antagonistic history with the NID..." He shook his head. "But then, Jack wasn't anywhere near as suspicious of their dealings as I expected him to be. Ah, well, I suppose we all see what we want to see."

Annoyed by the slur on her CO's intelligence, Carter shot back, "I suppose you getting caught was all part of the plan, as well?"

"Actually, no. No one at the NID expected Hammond to shuffle the deck the way he did. Their planners all figured you'd be put in charge of SG-1, at least for the interim. But General Hammond threw a monkey wrench into the works, and they were forced to work with it." He shrugged, then winced and rubbed his shoulder.

Carter felt a twinge of sympathy for him, and ruthlessly suppressed it. He'd gotten himself into this mess. She said with malice, "Maybourne got screwed, too."

Makepeace regarded her with interest. "What happened with that SOB, anyway? I know the NID sent him to Russia to get him out of the spotlight for a while, and to keep an eye on the Stargate that the Russians recovered. But then he did something that spooked Hartley pretty bad, enough to get the project moved to a new site and land us in this cell."

"Maybourne got caught," Carter said succinctly. "By us. He landed in jail for treason. For real, this time. Trading classified material to a foreign power."

Makepeace nodded to himself, as though putting together the pieces of a puzzle that had long eluded him. "Guess his faction must have lost out, after all," he murmured absently. "No wonder..."

"Faction?" Carter interrupted him. "What factions? How are they organized?"

He shut up and stared at her. She could see him weighing the pros and cons of answering her question. This must have something to do with whatever had set him at odds with Hartley. He chewed his lower lip and gazed off into space. She waited patiently. At last he seemed to come to another decision.

"The NID's internal structure is deliberately convoluted," Makepeace explained carefully. "The main body is legit and funded out of the country's black budget, just like the SGC. The shadow ops, like this one, are also mostly congressionally funded, but only through a very select, very hush-hush committee, with special funds access. There are several covert factions within the NID, all vying for control. Maybourne was a key player in the most moderate one."

At first she was surprised that he had even answered her. Then her brain caught up with her ears. Good God, Carter thought, Maybourne was a moderate? The other factions didn't bear thinking about. Makepeace's theory about an internal power struggle did account for why the NID's behavior patterns had suddenly changed a while back; why that organization had gotten so much brasher, so aggressive, even reckless, sometimes to the point of flaunting its less savory activities. That must have been when the moderates lost control.

"Still, I'll bet Maybourne landed on his feet. That man has more lives than a cat." Makepeace sounded almost amused.

"He did," Carter told him, "with Colonel O'Neill's help."

"Maybourne needed Jack? Get real," Makepeace scoffed derisively. "Maybourne always led him around by the nose. He used to brag about how he played Krycek to Jack's Mulder."

"Not always." Smugly, Carter related how and why Maybourne had turned against his former NID bosses and helped O'Neill give them back some of their own.

Makepeace gaped at her incredulously. "They just left Maybourne in prison? Just like that? Where O'Neill could get at him?" He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cement wall. "God, I wonder what that bullshit was all about. No wonder Hartley freaked."

Carter bristled at the implication. "What the hell do you mean?" she demanded.

"Jesus, Carter, you don't really believe that the NID would be so stupid that they'd leave someone with as much inside knowledge as Maybourne rotting in prison where he could rat them out, do you? Just how naïve are you?"

Carter stared at him.

"A 'suicide' or a disappearance would have been easy enough for them to arrange, if they really wanted Maybourne out of the picture. You know the old saying: Dead men tell no tales. Well, the NID's 'auxiliary' operations live and breathe by that slogan." He chuckled mirthlessly. "The whole setup stinks to high heaven. One of their groups had to be up to something. Although it's so stupid, I wonder if it wasn't just another internal furball, with Maybourne caught in the middle. The different factions fight like cats over power, and don't always care about the casualties their squabbles generate."

"What?" She couldn't believe her ears. "You think it might have been just another setup?"

Makepeace opened his eyes and turned his head slightly to look at Carter. The expression on his face was surprisingly sympathetic. "It really never occurred to you, did it? Bet it occurred to Hammond. He'd never say anything to anyone, though, not if it meant losing his advantage."

"Advantage?"

"Yeah. Bet he's gonna keep that card in reserve." Makepeace grinned vindictively, then locked his eyes onto hers. "General Hammond has been involved in those kind of games long enough to know what's what." He finished with a bit of advice, "Never, ever play poker or chess with that man."

General Hammond, a player? The idea had never occurred to her before, but now that she thought about it, it made a perverse kind of sense. Many high level command assignments and appointments had as much to do with politics as with other qualifications, and an installation like the SGC demanded someone in charge who knew the ropes, and could navigate both the high and low roads with equal competence. Carter licked her lips. "You said Maybourne was on the losing side."

"I speculated that he was on the losing side," Makepeace corrected her absently.

In spite of her grim situation, Carter was intrigued by the possibilities. "How does the ZPE extractor fit in? Politics? Or something else?"

"Hell, I don't know. Keeping track of all the plots and counterplots is damn near impossible. The whole organization is a fucking vipers' nest. Sometimes I think they pull all that crap either out of boredom or just for kicks."

"Yeah?" Carter found that idea strangely amusing, although it sounded like Makepeace didn't. Things really hadn't worked out all that well for him, had they? Before she thought it through, she blurted out, "So which faction do you work for?"

She winced as the words left her mouth. He wouldn't be telling her anything like that. That was probably one of the things Hartley wanted to know.

Sure enough, Makepeace's expression went hard and cold. "I think we've talked enough."

She feared she'd lost him again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ask—"

"No, Carter. That's got to be enough." He added, almost under his breath, "It's probably too much."

Too much? No, Carter thought, it wasn't nearly enough. However, she knew she wouldn't be getting any more out of him for a while. She watched as he resettled himself in the corner. He leaned heavily against the wall and closed his eyes, withdrawing, shutting her out again.

With a frustrated sigh, she picked herself up and moved away from him. Let him have his space for a while. He'd thawed toward her, given her incredible information about the NID. He'd do it again. She could pick his brain some more a little later.

She sat down and started considering how two people might successfully overpower a set of armed guards. It couldn't be impossible, she just needed a plan. One that took Makepeace's injuries into account. Even with his handicaps, she believed that the pair of them might succeed where he alone hadn't. She rested her back against the cold wall, running different scenarios in her mind's eye.


	10. Chapter 10

Still in civilian attire, six subdued and chastened servicemen were led through the halls of the SGC and into General Hammond's office. The two SF guards had them line up in front of the imposing desk, then stepped back and, like the miscreants, stood at parade rest.

General Hammond didn't bother to look up while this was going on; he merely continued to write in a notebook, ignoring the contrite men standing stiffly before him.

Daniel felt himself start to sweat. The normally patient and amicable general had to be in a really, really foul temper to give them this kind of silent treatment.

Finally, General Hammond closed his notebook and deigned to notice his men. He arose slowly, his face set in iron lines. He said only, "Good morning, gentlemen."

All six culprits, including Daniel, snapped to rigid attention, eyes front and center, hardly daring to breathe. Hammond's chilly gaze passed over each man in turn. He frowned and barked at the SF guards, "You forgot one."

The senior sergeant replied briskly, "No, sir."

"What do you mean, 'no, sir'? Major Carter should be here, too."

"Sir, she wasn't at the jail. Sir." The man's words made him the newest recipient of Hammond's ire. No fool, he also stood at attention, his gaze focused straight ahead.

Hammond's scowl reached epic proportions. "Check. Again." He enunciated each word clearly and deliberately.

"Yes, sir!" The guard saluted, pivoted sharply and exited the room.

"General," Daniel offered diffidently, "Sam probably—"

"Did I ask you a question, Doctor Jackson?"

Daniel blinked and shut up.

Hammond walked around his desk and paced along the line, glaring at each man in turn. He stopped before Warren. "Lieutenant Colonel Warren, weren't you and your men in here just last month?"

Warren admirably kept his cool. "Yes, sir."

"For brawling." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, sir."

Hammond scrutinized SG-3. "You people must enjoy pulling double shifts and cleaning latrines."

"General," O'Neill said, "it really wasn't anyone's fault. The fight just happened."

"It just happened," Hammond repeated in patent disbelief.

"Sir, a couple of civilians got into an argument and things just got out of hand. We all tried to bail out without getting involved."

"Really?" The single word was so frigid it practically dripped icicles. "Do tell, Colonel."

Daniel fought the urge to fidget. He wondered if Jack was making things worse, or if he'd actually manage to get them all off.

"Look," O'Neill continued, "I saw SG-3 heading for the door. Then some clown grabbed Warren and punched him into our table."

"And that was just the excuse you all needed to join in, is that it?" Hammond locked eyes with O'Neill. "Got in a few licks of your own, did you?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time—" O'Neill stopped dead at the cold look Hammond bestowed upon him. "General, the guy and his friends weren't backing off. We were just looking out for each other."

A knock on the door prevented O'Neill from digging himself in any deeper.

"Enter!" Hammond snapped.

The SF sergeant stepped back into the office and saluted. "Sir, I just got off the phone with the city jail. Major Carter isn't there, sir. According to their records, she was never arrested."

"Thank you. Dismissed." Hammond looked at the other guard. "You, too." Both SFs saluted and almost scurried out the door.

Hammond rubbed his mouth distractedly. He blew out a puff of air, again considered the miscreants before him. "We'll finish this later. SG-3, you're dismissed."

After the Marines had gone, the general went back to his desk and slumped into his chair. He looked at O'Neill and Daniel. "Major Carter didn't report in this morning. After our little chat last night, Colonel, I had assumed she was also in the drunk tank. Do either of you have any idea where she might be? Did she say anything to you?"

"Nothing, sir," O'Neill said with concern.

"The last time I saw her," Daniel added, "some big guy was tossing her across the room."

"And after that?" Hammond prompted.

"Another big guy was trying to strangle me. I didn't see what happened to her," Daniel said with a small shrug. "General, it's not like Sam to just take off without telling anyone. Something must have happened to her last night. We've got to start looking—"

"We will," Hammond promised. "I'll get calls in to the police, the hospitals, and," he hesitated, then plowed ahead, "the morgue."

Both Daniel and O'Neill winced and exchanged an unhappy glance.

Hammond continued, "I want you two to check out her house. It's possible she's just sleeping it off."

"Sir, we only shared one pitcher—" O'Neill started to protest.

"Colonel, you will check for her at home."

"Yes, sir."

"Better get moving," Hammond told them.

"Yes, sir," replied O'Neill. "Come on, Daniel."

The two men exited the office and practically ran for the elevators.


	11. Chapter 11

Carter awoke with a jolt, completely disoriented. She was lying on a hard, cold floor, her head pillowed against her bent arm. Her muscles protested loudly when she sat up and looked around, her confusion fading as she took in her surroundings. The bare cell harshly reminded her of the trouble she had unwittingly landed in.

Nothing had changed. Makepeace, leaning against the opposite wall, flicked a quick glance in her direction then went back to staring at nothing, thinking whatever thoughts a man in his position might entertain. Daydreaming of better times, perhaps, or maybe just considering their probable fate. Carter figured it was the latter; the Marine colonel's expression was depressingly somber.

Carter glanced up at the cell's lone light bulb, remembering that Makepeace had been kept in total darkness when she had arrived. Thank goodness the goons had left the light on. The thought of being trapped in the dark unnerved her.

Just how long had she been here, anyway? She couldn't check her watch; her personal effects had been confiscated at some point after her capture, no doubt while she was still unconscious from the chloroform. With the light on constantly, she had no way to determine the passage of time other than her own innate senses, which were unreliable in this stagnant environment.

She'd been here long enough to get used to the smell, at any rate. The fact that she'd added to it a couple of times herself indicated that she'd been here for quite a while. Maybe half a day, maybe longer.

Had she been gone long enough to be missed yet? Was anyone looking for her? If so, did they even have any clues to follow, any idea at all where to begin?

She stared at the metal door. She hadn't been able to come up with a workable escape plan. Everything hinged on that door being opened, and the guards being careless or stupid. Even if she did come up with something, how could she convey it to Makepeace without being overheard by the bugs that the cell surely contained?

The harsh sound of the cell door unlocking caused both prisoners to stiffen. Carter quickly scrambled to her feet. Makepeace pulled himself up more slowly, laboriously, as though the effort of standing was almost too much for him. Watching his struggles, Carter realized that was probably true, given his dreadful appearance. Whatever this particular faction of the NID wanted from him must be pretty important. Important enough to warrant torture of one of their own, and when that failed, to warrant the kidnapping of a highly visible member of the SGC. Carter was filled with foreboding. Contrary to the goons' sneers, their captors hadn't gone to all that trouble just to provide Makepeace with a little company.

She remembered that they had originally wanted someone from SG-3, Makepeace's old team. They had wanted someone who could be used as leverage. Now they had to make do with her. She bit her lip, trying not to think about what they had in mind for her.

The cell door swung open. Smiling pleasantly, Hartley stood silhouetted in the doorway, three of his pet goons waiting behind him. Carter watched them. All four were wary, observant. Careful. They obviously were prepared for any stunts their unwilling guests might pull.

Makepeace went very still.

"Good morning. I understand you two spent the night reminiscing," Hartley said cheerfully, confirming that the cell was bugged. "It must be nice for you to finally have some company, Bob."

"Real nice," the enormous, baton-wielding thug on his right agreed. Carter recognized him as the ugly one who had pushed her into the cell earlier. He added to her, "See, I told you he didn't hate you, babe."

"She is not a 'babe', Dorsett," Hartley reproved him mildly. "She's a major in the United States Air Force, and a Ph.D. besides. She is a woman to be reckoned with."

"Looks like a babe to me." Dorsett leered at her, displaying a mouthful of crooked teeth. "You could use bigger jugs, though, sweetie."

"Now, now. A Ph.D. in astrophysics hardly has any need of jugs."

"Yeah," another goon chimed in. "People really do want her for her mind." The other thugs chortled unpleasantly.

Makepeace stepped forward, half shielding Carter. "What the hell do you want, Hartley?" he demanded, drawing the goons' attention to himself.

Hartley focused his reptilian gaze on Makepeace. "You should know what I want by now, Bob."

Dorsett licked his lips and thumped his baton against one hand suggestively. He walked past Hartley, into the cell to face the two prisoners. He smiled nastily. "Ready for the next round, are you?" he said, errant spittle flying into Makepeace's face. Carter could smell the man's rancid breath even from where she stood, a little behind Makepeace's right shoulder.

Suddenly, Dorsett lashed out with his baton, catching Makepeace on his left flank. As Makepeace grunted and clutched his side, Dorsett brought the club down on his shoulder. Makepeace fell to his knees. With surprisingly un-thug-like skill and speed, Dorsett used his baton to put a brutal arm-lock on the downed Marine.

It had all gone down in seconds. Dorsett tightened the lock viciously. Makepeace's groan of pain jolted Carter out of her surprise-induced paralysis. She balled her fist, pulled it back to take a swing at Dorsett. Before she could let the punch fly, an arm wrapped around her neck and shoulder. She rammed an elbow back hard, felt a moment's satisfaction at the cry elicited when she connected. The grip on her relaxed, but a hard blow from the side caught her on the chin. She staggered, realized that the third goon had entered the fray. A club struck her stomach. She doubled over. A hand gripped her hair, yanking her head up. Another choke-hold was put on her neck, this time cinching in and cutting off her air. She grabbed at that constricting arm, attempting to pull it away from her throat, even as she was dragged into the center of the cell and lifted off her feet. She gagged and coughed, struggling wildly.

Makepeace yelled, "Goddamn you, let her go! Leave her alone!" His words broke off with an agonized gasp as Dorsett effectively silenced him with another twist on his arms.

And then her feet were on the floor, the pressure gone from her throat. She wheezed, gulping in air, and started to gather herself for another attack. She froze at the feel of cold metal at her temple.

"You could have used that in the first place," she rasped out.

"Wouldn't have been near as much fun," the thug said, keeping the gun pressed to her head.

"I told you she was a woman to be reckoned with." Hartley grinned at his men's injured pride. "Now, to the business at hand." He walked over to Makepeace, still kept kneeling and immobile by the massive Dorsett, and brandished a syringe of golden liquid. Makepeace's face went impassive, but not before Carter saw a trace of fear flash in his eyes. Hartley must have seen it, too, for he sneered, "Oh, don't worry, Bob, it's not for you this time." He gestured behind him. "It's for her."

Makepeace's gaze flickered from Hartley to Carter and back again.

"What'll it be?" Hartley asked, almost conversationally.

"You can't do that," Makepeace protested. "She's got nothing to do with this. You know that."

"You feeling talkative?" Makepeace was silent, his eyes downcast. "You chattered enough with her last night," Hartley said, pointing at Carter. "Told her all sorts of juicy tidbits about us that she really has no business knowing. So why not talk to me, as well?"

Makepeace kept his mouth shut.

Hartley said, "Fine," and then to his goons, "Go ahead."

Another choke-hold was put on Carter's throat, this one nearly rendering her unconscious. Through the swirling gray mists, she felt a cruel grip on her wrist, felt her arm stretched out tight. There was a sharp prick at the vein in the inner crook of her elbow. A gentle warmth pooled there. Then she was flung outward with no care whatsoever.

Barely conscious, she would have fallen if Makepeace hadn't caught her. He staggered with the impact, but in spite of his own less than perfect health, he managed to keep them both on their feet.

The door slammed shut behind them. Carter breathed deeply to clear her head, and let herself be held upright until her legs could do the job themselves. After a moment, she lifted her face and looked enquiringly at her fellow prisoner.

"What did they give me?" she asked shakily, rubbing the injection site. Her whole arm felt warm.

"Sunfire." Makepeace's voice was lifeless. He released her and stepped away.

"Sunfire," she repeated. The warmth was spreading, pulsing through her body with each beat of her heart, enveloping her in a pleasant glow. It filled her chest, her stomach, her neck. Raced down to her legs and feet. Lightheaded, she leaned against the wall, feeling the beginnings of terror. "What will it do to me?"

He looked away. "Hurt you."

"It feels warm." Too warm. She was sweating. Panting, she slid down the wall to sit on the floor. Makepeace crouched down beside her, watching her with guilt writ across his battered face. "Tell me," she demanded harshly.

"When it takes full effect, it's like being burned alive," he said softly, resolutely meeting her gaze. "The effect lasts about an hour, sometimes longer. It'll seem like forever, though. All you can do is survive it. The only good thing about the stuff is that it doesn't cause permanent damage."

"Burned alive?" She uttered a small cry as a searing pain like a red-hot poker lanced through her middle. "Shit, like that?"

"Worse," he said, watching her somberly. His blue eyes were unnaturally bright. "Carter, I am so sorry."

"You're sorry?" she managed to gasp out. Those were her last coherent words. Terrible heat engulfed her, burning hotter, brighter. White hot flames licked at her body. They crisped her skin, charred her flesh, blackened her bones. Her blood boiled in her veins. Her viscera were filled with glowing coals. She could feel nothing but the blazing holocaust within her. The heat of the sun. Incandescent, brilliant, all-consuming.

Sunfire.

Carter screamed.

Vaguely, in the throes of indescribable agony, she felt strong arms around her, holding her, keeping her from thrashing against the floor. She heard a distant voice talking to her, but couldn't make out the words.

The world filled with fire.


	12. Chapter 12

"I can't believe she gave you a key," Jack O'Neill said for what seemed like the hundredth time. He yanked the steering wheel and turned onto the highway, heading back to Cheyenne Mountain.

"Sam needed someone to check her house last time she left town to visit her brother," Daniel replied, yet again. He wished Jack would quit bitching and pay more attention to his driving.

Jack just grumbled under his breath. Again.

"It's just as well," Daniel said reasonably. "Your way, we would have probably been arrested as Peeping Toms or thieves casing the place."

Truer words. Jack had actually suggested peering through the windows, or trying to pick the lock on Sam's front door. Sam lived in a nice neighborhood. People probably looked out for one another there. Daniel was sure someone would have called the cops to report the suspicious activity.

Having no desire to spend any more time in the city jail, Daniel had produced the key to Sam's house and told Jack to ditch the Hollywood theatrics. Jack had said much the same thing then as he continued to grumble now, but had been quick to take advantage of easy, legal access into the house.

Not that it had mattered. Sam's place was empty, holding no signs that she'd ever returned home the night before.

Daniel glanced over at his grim-faced companion. Jack had been complaining about the key to avoid talking about the real situation. Unless some new information came to light, they were out of alternatives. Daniel hoped General Hammond had managed to locate Sam someplace other than the morgue.

Jack took a sharp turn into the Cheyenne Mountain complex and headed straight to the tunnel, stopping only to flash his ID at the security men in the guard station. After a quick check on the computer, the guards waved them through. Jack drove in and parked as near the elevators as the heightened security inside would allow.

Fifteen minutes later, both men were striding down the SGC's corridors to General Hammond's office. After a quick rap on the door, they were allowed in. Daniel wasn't too surprised to see Teal'c waiting inside. Hammond would certainly have apprised him of the situation.

General Hammond sat behind his desk, wearing a somber expression. "Gentlemen?" He made the word a question.

"Nada, sir," Jack answered. "Nobody was home. Bed was made, kitchen was tidy."

"Damn." Hammond scrubbed his face with his hands.

"I take it your search didn't go so well, either, sir?"

The general shook his head. "There's no sign of her anywhere."

"Well, I guess that's good," said Daniel. When the other three men stared at him, he explained, "At least she's not in the morgue. Although I suppose she might be in a ditch somewhere..." He stopped when he realized he'd actually said that out loud.

"You're just Mister Sunshine today, aren't you?" Jack said snidely.

Teal'c asked with his usual calm stoicism, "What other avenues are there to pursue?"

Daniel glanced at him. Teal'c might appear placid to outsiders, but those who knew him could discern the worry in his eyes, the deeper than normal frown lines that bracketed his mouth.

Hammond said, "The police will keep an eye out for her. The chief's a...an acquaintance of mine."

"What could have become of her?" Teal'c asked.

"Kidnapping," was Jack's unhesitating answer.

"Kidnapping?" Daniel echoed.

"You'd prefer the ditch?"

Daniel's mouth hung open.

"That's enough, both of you," Hammond snapped. "We can't rule out any theory. Kidnapping is a distinct possibility. Major Carter possesses a great deal of classified scientific and technical information that a foreign power would find extremely useful." He took a deep breath. "Let me make a few more calls. I have some old friends who might have heard something."

"Old friends, sir?" Jack pressed.

Hammond scowled at him. "Need to know, Colonel." He waved the three men off. "Now get out of my office. I'll call you when I know anything."


	13. Chapter 13

Slowly, Carter forced her crusty eyelids open. Light from the bare, incandescent bulb stabbed her eyes, and she squeezed them shut again. Her mouth felt full of cotton, her head pounded mercilessly, and every muscle and bone in her body ached. Her hair felt greasy. The floor she lay on was blessedly cool, a pleasant contrast to her lingering fever. She waited, and gradually the ringing in her ears subsided. A hollow silence surrounded her.

When she felt braver, she reopened her eyes, keeping them averted from the harsh light overhead. They felt like they were full of sand, and didn't particularly want to focus, but otherwise seemed to be in working order. The concrete beneath her was hard and uncomfortable, but surprisingly, her head was pillowed on something soft. Her clothes were drenched. The smell of fresh urine hung in the air. She tried not to think about that and spent a little time working some saliva into her dry mouth.

It was so quiet. Was she alone? She turned her head a little to the side. No, not alone. Makepeace sat huddled in the far corner, bare-chested, staring at the floor.

"Hey," she croaked. Her throat felt raw, as though she had swallowed broken glass.

Makepeace's head jerked up at the sound of her voice. "Carter? How do you feel?" His tone was gentle, sympathetic even, but he didn't make a move toward her.

"Terrible." Carter levered herself up to a sitting position. It took a lot of effort. Her muscles were like rubber, and the pounding in her head got worse. "Oh, God," she groaned. She rubbed her temples and shuddered, remembering unendurable pain, like she had been roasted and boiled alive, all at once. It had gone on and on and on... She pushed it away, far, far away, and focused on nice, grounding facts, on the here-and-now. "So that was Sunfire, huh?" she asked as casually as she could. She thought that was pretty good. Her voice had only trembled a little.

"Yeah." Makepeace stayed in his corner. "Take it easy. It'll get better in a little while."

That sounded like the voice of experience. Swallowing painfully, Carter looked down at her pillow. It was a tee shirt, balled up into a loose cushion. She lifted it and shook it out. "This yours?"

Makepeace nodded.

Dumb question, Carter told herself. He's got no shirt on, you're holding a shirt, of course it's his. Before she could berate herself further, a wave of nausea rose up within her. She leaned to one side and retched violently.

Warm hands were at her shoulders, steadying her as she emptied her stomach of its meager contents. There wasn't much to bring up; their captors hadn't bothered to feed them since she'd been brought here. She spat out a last mouthful of bile and cautiously straightened, feeling the roiling in her middle ease slightly. The hands released her. She missed their touch, their reminder of humanity. Their surprising kindness.

Makepeace moved away and went over to the water bucket. He returned with a paper cup that had seen better days and handed it to her. Carter rinsed her mouth then drank gratefully. The cool liquid slid down her parched throat, soothing the scratches and the burning.

"Whoa, slow down, you'll just get sick again." Makepeace tried to pull the cup away from her, but she clung to it tenaciously. Giving up, he let go and, with stiff, painful movements, sat down beside her.

He was staring at the floor again. She watched him over the lip of the cup, examining his bare torso, a little shocked at his physical condition. She'd known that he had been beaten, tortured—his bruised face and cigarette burned arms gave stark evidence of the kind of treatment he'd received—but actually seeing the true extent of the damage was somehow worse than mere intellectual awareness.

He'd been worked over by pros. His skin was covered with vivid bruising to match his face, mottled in lively patterns of green and red, black and blue. Cuts and burns were scattered across his chest, stomach, and back with sadistic calculation to inflict the most pain, even when they were healing. Small wonder Makepeace moved stiffly. He'd be lucky if he didn't have any cracked ribs.

Carter looked away. Sympathy for the devil. She supposed it was only natural, in the aftermath of what she herself had just endured. Carter's mind shied away from that horrible experience before the images could fully form. To distract herself, she focused again on Makepeace. She noticed he was shivering a little in the chill air.

She finished the water and set the cup down, then lifted the tee shirt and held it out to him. "Here."

He took it, not touching her hand, and pulled it on. The stained cotton hid his hideous injuries from view.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

"Thank you for loaning it to me," Carter said, forcing a tiny little smile to her chapped lips.

Makepeace didn't smile back. His eyes, normally a steely blue, were soft with despair. "Carter, I'm sorry."

She didn't say anything, only watched him. If she hadn't felt so completely drained, she would have been dumbfounded at the tragic look on his face.

He continued bleakly, "It's only going to get worse. I'm so sorry you were dragged into this. Nobody else was supposed to get—" He broke off and stared at the floor.

Get what? Carter wondered. Involved? Caught? Tortured? Had Makepeace really believed he could run with jackals without consequences? That he could work on the NID's more disreputable operations and still keep his hands clean? If he really cared about what happened to his old colleagues, then why the hell had he betrayed them in the first place?

And he had accused her of being naïve. It was almost funny.

Almost.

The silence stretched on. Giving in to her exhaustion, Carter settled herself more comfortably on the floor and leaned back against the cement wall, closing her eyes. Her arm and shoulder were just touching Makepeace's. It helped ease the terror a bit. Maybe now he was just another disgraced NID henchman, but before that he'd been one of the good guys, someone you could rely on, solid and dependable and fearless. So what if he'd been a little abrasive. He'd always been there, more than once going up against terrible odds, willing to risk death for the sake of his comrades. Maybe that was why his betrayal had stung everyone so badly. If someone like that could be turned, anyone could.

Makepeace allowed the contact for a few moments, then shifted, moving himself an inch or two away. He stayed seated beside her, though.

A little irritated at his action, Carter broke the silence, asking, "You don't particularly like the NID, do you?"

"What's to like?"

Interesting response. It might be motivated by his present circumstances, but Carter didn't think so. The emotion behind the words had a well-worn feeling, as though it were of long standing. Not for the first time, she wondered just what exactly had induced Makepeace get mixed up with the NID. The desire to gain forbidden technology for Earth? To search for better ways to fight the Goa'uld? That was what he'd claimed, so long ago: That the ends justified the means.

Makepeace's voice interrupted her train of thought. "Get some rest while you can, Carter," he said gruffly. "I'm pretty sure you're going to need it." He added, almost as an afterthought, "And even if you don't, I do."


	14. Chapter 14

Carefully, almost like he feared an incautious movement might cause it to explode, General Hammond set the phone handset down into its cradle. All of his sources had come up empty. Nothing, nada, zip. No one had heard anything about Carter. If she'd been kidnapped by any covert agency or foreign power, the operation had been remarkably leak-free.

Hammond supposed it was possible that a lone crazy had done the job, rather than a nice, predictable black ops group. The idea that Samantha Carter might simply be another serial killer statistic shook him, but it was a possibility that had to be considered.

He couldn't get the image of her lying dead in a ditch out of his mind.

Chewing the inside of his cheek, he forced himself up and away from his desk, and headed out of his office. Once in the hallway, he stopped, wondering where he might find SG-1. It would be a simple matter to just have them paged—that was what intercoms were for, after all—but he really felt the need to move around, to walk off some of his fears and frustrations.

After pacing through what seemed like half of Cheyenne Mountain, checking all of SG-1's usual haunts, he finally ran them to ground in the commissary. Nursing cups of coffee and half-eaten sandwiches, the three men were seated at a table in the corner, managing to isolate themselves from the rest of the personnel milling around in their quest for something halfway edible. Hammond went over to the table and sat down next to Teal'c.

The trio stared at him, their initial hopeful expressions changing to disappointment when they got a good look at his face.

O'Neill opened his mouth first. "No news, I take it?"

"Nothing. Yet," Hammond replied.

"No news is better than bad news," Jackson put in. "Right?"

"Maybe." Hammond didn't feel the need to share his lone psycho theory just yet. He'd wait for the police report before going that far.

"Will your police be able to locate Major Carter?" Teal'c asked, a little too pointedly for Hammond's taste.

"I don't know. Maybe. There was no sign of a struggle at her house, nothing to indicate she was taken by force. We've got other people hunting for her, besides the police. It's a big deal when someone like Major Carter just disappears into thin air like this. It raises all kinds of red flags."

"Because of her specialized knowledge?" Teal'c hazarded.

"Because of her * _classified*_ specialized knowledge, Teal'c," O'Neill corrected with more than his usual cynicism.

"Either way, gentlemen," Hammond said, "she will be found." One way or another, dead or alive, were the words left unspoken, but then, they didn't need to be said. The faces around the table already looked glum enough.

"Sir," O'Neill said, "is there anything we can do, any way to help at all? I know how these * _special*_ searches go, but maybe we can—"

"There's nothing any of you can do. You know that, Jack," Hammond told him, a little sadly. "I wish to God there were. All I can suggest is that you put your minds to thinking of anything you can about her personal habits and routines. Anything at all to give the police and our people a starting point—some kind of clue as to what might have happened to her."

"So, other than that, for now we just wait for something to break."

"I'm afraid so, son."

"I'm not real good at waiting, General."

Hammond scrubbed his face with his hands. "Jack," he said slowly, carefully, "if you can think of anything else to do... If you have any contacts of your own left from the bad old days..."

O'Neill tapped his mug thoughtfully. "There are one or two people I might call. Whether they'll want to talk to me or not is kind of an open question, though."

"I can imagine." Hammond chuckled a little, thinking of all the ways O'Neill might've managed to piss off the spooks over the years. Then he sobered. He knew from personal experience that pissed-off spooks could be less than cooperative. "Jack, I won't tell you no." At the way O'Neill's eyes lit, the general felt compelled to add, "Just don't do anything to mess up our own people, all right?"

"Yes, sir!"

Daniel and Teal'c watched longingly as O'Neill strode away. Daniel turned to Hammond and asked, "What about us, General?"

"You got any useful contacts?" he asked, already knowing the answer. When Daniel shrugged dispiritedly, Hammond added with sympathy, "Like I said, jot down anything you can remember about Major Carter's routines. You never know what might help."


	15. Chapter 15

Carter inhaled deeply and made a small, sleepy sound. Gradually, her awareness returned. She felt the hard cement floor beneath her, the concrete wall against her spine. Her predicament came back to her, forced her to complete consciousness.

Yet somehow, for the first time since her ordeal began, Carter felt almost comfortable. She was warm with heat from the body next to hers. She opened her eyes slowly, careful not to move, to disturb the pleasant arrangement. Somehow, in sleep, she and Makepeace had leaned against one another in an unconscious desire for companionship. Her head was on his shoulder. His head rested against hers. It felt nice.

How odd.

Makepeace was still asleep. She stayed still, listening to his deep, steady breathing. Intellectually, she knew that people had a tendency to cling together when put into life threatening situations, and to go their separate ways more often than not when it was all over. She knew that was all this was. However, that knowledge didn't minimize the comforting effect of the instinct.

And so, she was disappointed when he started to stir.

With a soft little grunt, he lifted his head from hers. She felt him freeze next to her as he became aware of his position. Then he pulled away, although he seemed almost reluctant to do so, Carter thought. He groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, moving like an arthritic old man. His injuries must have stiffened up during the few hours they had slept. She watched as he started going through a series of careful stretches.

Deprived of her living cushion, Carter also stood up, and realized her muscles had tightened, as well. She did a few stretches of her own. A basic biological need made itself known to her, so she went to the bucket in the opposite corner. Makepeace politely turned his back while she emptied her bladder. She moved away from the bucket to let him have his turn, and returned the favor of privacy. They each got a drink from the water pail. Neither said anything to the other.

In silence, they both sat down again.

Waiting.

Carter remembered her bout with Sunfire, remembered Makepeace's reaction. In its aftermath, she'd been too worn to think, to question what might have happened while she was incoherent. Now, just to clarify the situation, she asked, "I take it they still haven't gotten what they want from you?"

"No."

She bit her lip. "I'm not going to be enough leverage, am I?"

"No."

Carter closed her eyes. She'd known that. She thought of Hartley's original plan. "Would Johnson have been enough leverage?"

He stiffened. After a moment, he said, regretfully, "No."

She'd thought as much. She could see it in his eyes. He'd watch his own mother be tortured to death, if he had to.

The conversation died away. They sat quietly. Carter started running escape scenarios through her mind again. Try as she might, she couldn't come up with any that had even a minor chance of succeeding. During their last encounter, Hartley's pet goons had been too observant, too careful. They hadn't let themselves be distracted, and they performed their duties with ruthless efficiency and brutal pleasure. Competent sadists.

She at last understood why Makepeace had been so despondent, so resigned. She remembered how appalled he'd been by her arrival, and knew that no matter what happened, no matter what she knew or didn't know, she was condemned to share his fate.

"They're going to kill us, aren't they?" Carter asked, breaking the stillness.

"Eventually."

There was nothing to say to that uncompromising answer. Carter considered what that lone word meant for her, for Makepeace. Death. Defeat. That was what it meant. Eventually. After endless misery, for both of them. Pain and screaming and terror. For both of them. Eventually, Makepeace would break, tell Hartley whatever it was that he was so desperate to know. And then they would both die. Eventually.

Trying not to hyperventilate, Carter shifted her position to ease the strain on her legs. Her arm and shoulder touched her companion's, just barely, as they had a few hours before, when she had also needed the comfort of a little human contact and been denied. This time, though, Makepeace didn't move away.

Carter glanced at the quiet man beside her. "Tell me the truth," she said suddenly.

"About what?" Makepeace sounded infinitely weary.

"Why is Hartley doing this? What does he want from you?"

Makepeace closed his eyes and hung his head.

"Please," she insisted. "I deserve to know what I'm going to die for."

"You do," he agreed softly.

Carter waited.

Several minutes went by. The only sound in the small cell was of their breathing, and the beating of their own hearts.

"Colonel," Carter prodded gently.

Makepeace flinched. Another minute passed. Finally, he raised his head and stared at the cell door. "You know I don't work for Hartley," he began.

Carter nodded.

"I think that's obvious." He grinned crookedly. "I never did work for him, or this faction. Never."

He stopped talking. More time ticked by.

"Who do you work for?" Carter asked.

"It's better not to talk about that. Safer for you."

"Oh," Carter said inadequately.

"Everything they've done so far has been to get to me... But if they thought you knew... anything... or were actually involved somehow..." Makepeace looked haunted at the idea.

"I understand." She said that mostly to placate him, and didn't press the issue. She didn't really think Hartley would jump to such an unlikely conclusion. Makepeace wasn't thinking clearly on this subject, but at least his heart was in the right place.

Carter shivered a little, remembering the agony of Sunfire, remembering the injuries on Makepeace's chest and back. Rather fatalistically, she wondered how long she might hold out against such a determined interrogation.

She had been tortured before, it was true, but her previous interrogators had had remarkably short attention spans. A session or two without results, and they had moved on to the next victim. She had never been hurt so badly that she couldn't move and fight when an opportunity for escape appeared. Judging from Makepeace's appearance and traumatized body language—not to mention her own experiences so far—the bastards she now faced had far more patience.

"I have copies of all the data on their ZPE project," Makepeace blurted out. "All the research, schematics, bills of materials, even the project history. And details on its funding and authorization. Everything. That's what they want."

Carter stared at him, wide-eyed, her previous thoughts scattering at that information. "That could shut them down. My God, that could take down the entire NID."

"Or raise any one of its internal factions to power," Makepeace stated, watching her.

But Carter only shook her head. "Practical zero-point energy," she breathed. "You know, I'd give just about anything to have a look at that data."

"Even your soul?" Makepeace asked with a cynical twist to his lips.

She shot a sharp look at him. "What do you mean?"

"That data was stolen from the Asgard, remember?"

Carter almost protested. The Asgard had gotten their technology back, after all. The amused gleam in Makepeace's eyes stopped her cold. Even the information was ill-gotten gains. But how could that be returned? Should it be returned? She would never have suggested just erasing data obtained from the Russians or the Chinese without studying it first. The mere idea was ludicrous. Why was this any different? Because the Asgard were—in theory at least—allies? Perhaps, but history was littered with instances of allies spying on one another.

"It's a pretty slippery slope, don't you think?" he commented, as though reading her mind. "Lined with slime. Ain't espionage wonderful?"

"God, the human race sucks sometimes. Spying on our allies," she sighed.

"Business as usual on Planet Earth. Why should the Asgard be exempt from our routine moral quagmires? Serves 'em right for interfering in the first place."

Carter pulled a knee up to her chest and laced her fingers over it. A moral quagmire, indeed. Who knew what the consequences would be, no matter how the present scenario played out?

"Is there a point to holding out against Hartley?" she asked. "Besides staying alive, that is?"

"There's a small chance that..." Makepeace hesitated marginally, "...that my people might realize something's happened to me when I don't check in, and come searching. They might stumble onto the place I hid the stuff, if they're thorough enough, and if they manage to beat Hartley to it."

Hartley must know that too, or Makepeace would never have mentioned it. Carter asked, "What are the chances of that happening?"

"Pretty small," he admitted, "but it's worth a shot."

"Is it?"

"Yes," was his firm reply.

"Just for power? Is that all?"

"Is that all?" Makepeace echoed incredulously. "Carter, you never cease to amaze me." Then he actually smiled, a clear, honest expression that suited him far better than the Byzantine games he'd been playing with the NID. "Of course, for power," he told her. "To regain some balance. To even some very unfair odds."

What odds, Carter wondered, was he balancing? The opposing factions within the NID, or was there another player involved, one thus far unmentioned?

They sat in silence again. Carter was immersed in her thoughts and speculations. After a time, she finally heard the noise she had been both expecting and dreading: The sound of the door being unlocked. Her stomach twisted itself into knots as she watched that ponderous steel barrier swing open.

Mister Big and Ugly Dorsett stepped into the cell first, followed by Slater and a guard Carter had never seen before. All three men were armed with M16 rifles, and also wore Glock 9mm pistols as sidearms. The rifles were on full auto. The two prisoners climbed to their feet warily.

Hartley came in last. "I trust you two are well rested," he said, looking almost jovial, "because today we're going to try something new. Dorsett, here, came up with an amusing idea, and I've decided to indulge him."

Dorsett leered at Carter, his suggestive gaze traveling the length of her body from head to foot and back again in a manner that left no doubt as to either his intentions or his "amusing idea." She took a deep breath and held it for a few heartbeats, then let it out slowly, keeping careful control so it didn't shake. That examination made her feel dirty, made her want to shrink back and hide behind Makepeace. Instead, she met Dorsett's gaze with fierce defiance. He grinned and licked his lips.

Ignoring that small drama, the events of which he could well predict, Hartley instead watched Makepeace. He smiled when he saw the Marine pale slightly, and made a small gesture with one hand.

Evidently, that meant "get on with it." In the blink of an eye, Slater and the other guard shouldered their rifles and flanked Makepeace, taking a firm hold on his arms. Dorsett grabbed a handful of Carter's blouse and slammed her into the wall, pressing himself up against her body and smirking down at her. A knee forced her legs apart. One rough hand crushed her throat while the other groped her breasts. "I still say your tits ain't big enough, babe, but we'll have some fun anyway."

"Dorsett, you son of a bitch!" Makepeace yelled, struggling against the two gorillas holding him. "Hartley, don't do this!"

"I'm not doing anything," Hartley returned, his arms folded across his chest. "You'll have to take it up with Dorsett."

"Goddammit—"

"Oh, and Bob..."

Makepeace's attention snapped from Dorsett and Carter to Hartley. "What?"

"Slater and Jennings get a turn after Dorsett's finished."

The sound of tearing cloth rent the air as Dorsett ripped Carter's blouse. She uttered an angered cry and fought against him. Dorsett backhanded her across the face, the blow rocking her head to one side. Then he gripped her hair and forcibly kissed her bleeding mouth.

Makepeace bellowed with rage and broke away from his captors, both of whom had been startled and distracted by Hartley's last announcement. He whipped around, nailed Jennings in the face with a backfist, and made a grab for the man's rifle. Slater moved in and swept Makepeace's legs out from under him, sending the Marine crashing to the floor. In desperation, Makepeace kicked out violently to try to keep the mercenary at bay.

Slater neatly sidestepped the attack and hooked Makepeace's left leg with an arm before the Marine could pull it back. Grinning like a wolf, he twisted the captive foot viciously. The loud crack of over-stressed bone and tendon was almost drowned out by Makepeace's scream of pain.

Dorsett had pulled back from Carter to watch the show. She took advantage of his momentary lapse of attention to drive the heel of her palm under his chin, snapping his head back, and followed with a fist to his solar plexus. As Dorsett doubled over, she kicked his knee, sending him to the ground, and yanked the M16 from his shoulder. She whirled, pumping hot lead into Slater.

Jennings had recovered from the blow to his head and unshouldered his rifle. Makepeace kicked out with his good leg, knocking the mercenary off balance, and Carter finished him off with another burst from her M16.

"You bitch!" Dorsett screamed, coming up behind her and pulling out his pistol. Before Carter could turn and bring her gun to bear, Makepeace snatched up Jennings's rifle and yanked on the trigger convulsively, firing burst after burst straight into Dorsett's head, shattering his skull and splattering blood, brains, and shards of bone across the room.

"I've been wanting to do that all week," Makepeace gasped out, holding the gun in one hand while cradling his broken ankle with the other.

Shaking with tension and adrenaline, Carter panned her weapon around the cell. "Where's Hartley?"

"Gone. Like we'd better be. There'll be alarms going off pretty soon."

Carter reached down and picked up Dorsett's pistol. She tucked it into her pants, then helped Makepeace up. He leaned heavily against her, biting his lips against the pain. "Can you walk on that leg?" she asked, worried about his condition.

"I'll have to, won't I?"

She wrapped her free arm around his waist to support him, then moved out the cell door and down the hall, practically dragging Makepeace along with her. The alarms started screaming just as the pair made it to the elevator.

"Damn, they'll trap us in this thing," Carter snarled, glaring at the closed elevator doors. However, there was no other choice unless she abandoned Makepeace. With his broken ankle, he'd never make it up a staircase.

"Maybe," Makepeace shouted over the deafening sirens, watching down the hallway for enemies, "but Hartley's seriously understaffed right now. The whole base bugged out. There were only ten, maybe fifteen guys that I know about pulling security and torture detail. Hartley didn't figure he'd need any more just to handle little ol' me."

Just then the elevator doors slid open. With no other options, Carter hustled Makepeace in. "Which floor? One?"

"Two. They'll probably be expecting us to go to the first floor, so most of the guards'll be deployed there—I hope. The second floor has a landing and short staircase to the parking lot, but since stairs are a problem for me," he said, grimacing, "they probably won't cover it as well as the first. The other floors also have emergency exits, so they won't know for sure which floor we'll go to until we actually stop. Hartley'll have to split the rest of his force to cover all of them."

The reasoning was sound—at least, as sound as possible under less than optimal conditions. Carter nodded and punched the button. As the elevator began moving upwards, the pair silently readied their M16s and moved to either side of the cab, preparing to shoot their way out if needed. The elevator stopped; an instant later its doors slid open.

Careful not to expose too much of her head, Carter peeked around the doorway. Immediately, a harsh male voice demanded, "Throw out your weapons and you won't be hurt! Now!"

Carter pulled back, but not before she spotted two men waiting with rifles aimed at the elevator. They hadn't started shooting, so she figured they had orders to take her and Makepeace alive. She held up two fingers and gestured to specify the guards' positions. Makepeace nodded and indicated which one he would take.

Carter made a "go" gesture, and both erupted from the elevator, firing at their chosen targets. Blood spattered on the walls, and the two guards dropped.

"That way!" Makepeace yelled, gesturing to the right.

The pair shambled down the hall, Carter again supporting Makepeace as much as she could. He was leaning hard on her and hopping on one leg, only occasionally putting his injured left foot down to maintain his balance, and hissing every time he had to do so. Fortunately, it was a short distance to a metal door marked with a green-lit exit sign.

"This leads to the parking lot," Makepeace said, leaning against the wall. "There should be some cars there."

Carter nodded and flung open the door, keeping her rifle aimed. Just outside, there was a small landing with a short flight of metal stairs that led down to the parking lot. As Makepeace has said, a handful of cars waited in it. Surprisingly, the whole area was clear of hostiles. "There's no one out here," she said. "Why the hell not?"

"They were probably all deployed at the elevators, but they had to hear the shots. They'll be here soon enough."

Carter moved onto the landing and down the stairs, Makepeace hopping along behind her. She checked the first car she reached. Not unexpectedly, it was locked. She kept moving from car to car, but none of them opened. Gritting her teeth, she gave up on the search and shattered the window glass of an old brown Impala with the butt of her rifle, then reached in and unlocked the door.

Makepeace hopped over to the passenger's side. "Need me to hot-wire it?"

"I think I can manage." Carter set her M16 down beside her, leaned over, and unlocked the passenger's door. She then ducked under the dashboard.

The engine rumbled to life as Makepeace got in beside her. Carter emerged from under the steering wheel, grinning smugly. She put the car in gear and tore off down the access road, skirting the edge of the partially restored mining pit. The lines of demarcation between the old strip mine and the areas that had been cleaned up were startling: expanses of lush grass, wildflowers, and evergreens that suddenly gave way to sterile, dusty earth.

"Turn right up here," Makepeace said as they came to a crossroad. "That'll put us on the main drag to Eddington. And take it easy on the speed, unless you want to get pulled over. There's no telling if any of the local cops are on the NID's payroll."

Carter nodded, turning and slowing down a little.

Makepeace craned his neck around. "We aren't being followed yet, but we should ditch this car and grab another one ASAP."

"Grand theft auto," Carter muttered. "What next?"

"Better that than the alternative."

There was nothing Carter could say to that bleak statement. After three silent miles, she spotted a roadside steakhouse and turned off.


	16. Chapter 16

Less than fifteen minutes later, Carter and Makepeace were driving along in an ancient Ford Fairlane. She hoped the car belonged to one of the steakhouse's employees, since a patron might miss his and report the theft far too soon. She rolled down the window and savored the fresh air. For a while there, she'd doubted she'd ever smell anything so wonderful again. Makepeace leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.

"We need to get to my stash," he muttered. "There's some cash with it. Also some ID and credit cards. More than enough for a quick getaway."

"Just in case you had to make a run for it, huh?"

"It was always a possibility." He added bitterly, "As amply demonstrated by the present circumstances."

"Umhumm," she grunted. "I assume you've got a cover cooked up?"

"Name's Zachary Abernathy."

"You're kidding."

Makepeace shrugged defensively. "I didn't pick it."

Carter pried her tongue out of her cheek and merely asked, "So, where to, Zach?"

He gave her a dirty look. "Just stay on this road. It'll take us right to the train station. I've got the stuff in a locker there."

Carter's jaw dropped. "Isn't that just a little cliché?" she asked with derision.

"Hey, it worked. Besides, I moved it around every so often, and there just aren't many places you can anonymously hide something like that in a town this size."

She snorted and shook her head, smiling, as the desert gave way to low, brick buildings and sedate traffic. She slowed down to match the in-town speed limit of thirty-five, and stopped for a red light.

While they waited, Carter gave her companion an appraising glance. An idea had been buzzing around the back of her brain ever since they had escaped, and she wondered how he might receive it. "What are you going to do now?"

Makepeace shrugged.

"You're injured, you won't be able to get very far on your own, you know," she continued her line of thought.

"What are you getting at, Carter?"

"You could come back with me," she said in a rush. "Back to the SGC. That data you've got—"

"You want me to go back to the SGC?" he asked, staring at her incredulously. He burst into laughter. "Carter, you're absolutely amazing, you know that? You have no idea what you're suggesting, do you?"

"I know you'll be in a lot of trouble," she said insistently, determined to get Makepeace, the information in his head, and the data he stole back to where it would do the most good, "but with what you've got on the NID, I'm sure you'll be able to make some kind of deal."

He just laughed harder.

"It's not that funny," she said with indignation.

"Oh, yes it is."

The light turned green. Carter scowled and hit the gas. The car leapt forward, jarring Makepeace enough to make him gasp and clutch at his ankle. At least he stopped laughing. Another twenty minutes and eight more traffic lights brought them to the Eddington Public Train Station.

Carter was a little surprised at its size. She had been expecting something small and quaint, but this was on par with the town's larger office buildings. The architecture was older, though. She guessed it was from around the turn of the century. The building had a certain old-world charm. A few people could be seen going in and out.

"It was built when the mine was still transporting ore out of town, and large equipment in," Makepeace told her. "They did all that by rail. There's tracks that go straight to the mine. I don't think it gets too much traffic these days, but there's always freight, and a few folks that still like to travel by train. Don't park too close. One of those side streets ought to do."

Carter dutifully parked the car near a building that had seen better days and shut off the engine. "Now what?"

Makepeace popped open the glove compartment and rummaged around. He came up with a few loose pieces of paper and a stubby pencil, and started scribbling.

"What's that?" Carter asked.

"You'll need the locker number and its combination." At her questioning glance, he added, "You know I can't go with you. You'll have to get the stuff yourself. It's all in a briefcase, so it'll be easy to carry inconspicuously."

"How do you know I won't just take your data and your money, and ditch you?"

"I don't."

Makepeace continued writing while Carter mulled that over. Was he counting on her better nature to keep her from abandoning him? He'd be right about that, she thought wryly. Still, as the only able-bodied person in this little team of two, surely she held all the cards. He must realize that his data collection was going back to the SGC, even if he wasn't.

"I want you to do something for me while you're at it," he broke into her thoughts.

She regarded him warily. "What?"

He handed her the slip of paper. She looked at it curiously. In addition to the locker number and combination, Makepeace had written down a ten-digit phone number and what appeared to be a series of code words. "What's this?"

"What does it look like?"

"It looks like a phone number," she said with a roll of her eyes. "What's it for?"

A self-derisive half-smile touched his lips. "For all practical purposes, it's a 'come save my ass' number. I want you to call it when you get the chance."

"Who'll answer?"

"I don't really know," he admitted with a small shrug. "Depends on who's logged into the system at the time, who also happens to be authorized to take the call, I guess. Don't worry if you get dead air, just give it the codes and you'll get transferred."

"That didn't answer my question, and you damn well know it." Carter glared at him, fed up with his evasive responses.

"Carter—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know—it's safer if I don't know," she mimicked. "You expect me to just call in blind like that? Just how stupid do you think I am? It's not like I've got any real reason to trust you, you know."

"Look, it doesn't matter if you trust me or not," Makepeace said in exasperation. "Hell, feel free to ditch me if you want. Just call that number, tell 'em what's going on, and lie low until the cavalry arrives. Then, while Hartley's security team is distracted with them, you can get the hell out of Dodge."

That actually sounded like a reasonable plan. Makepeace would presumably get collected by his own people, whoever they were, and Carter would be able to escape—with the ZPE data in hand if she did everything right. She nodded her agreement. "All right, I'll do it. But first I get the data," she stated, "then I call your friends. Not before."

"Fine." Visibly relieved, Makepeace shut his eyes and rested his head against the car seat. Carter wondered that he didn't object to her getting and possibly keeping his stolen data, but figured he was just glad to be getting out of this mess alive. Perhaps he considered it the price of his escape, with a little dash of revenge thrown in, a desire to screw Hartley any way he could. She could relate.

"Is the briefcase locked, too?"

"Huh?" Makepeace's eyes flicked open again.

Carter said patiently, "I can't make a call from a public phone without money or a credit card. I'll need to open up the briefcase to get those things."

"Oh. Oh, right." He took the paper, jotted a four-number combination onto it, and handed it back to her.

"You must like combination locks," she commented.

"Better than having to worry about keys."

"True."

Makepeace sighed, his eyebrows knitted in thought. "Carter," he said, looking very unhappy, "you know that old saw about eating the secret message if you get captured?"

"You have got to be kidding me."

"I wish I were." With an effort that appeared painful, Makepeace leaned forward and looked straight in her face. "The phone number alone'll give Hartley's people way too much information, and they'll assume you're in on it. You've got to get rid of that note if they catch up with you. I don't care how, but you can't let them have that number."

Carter grew cold at those words and what they implied. "You think they'll find us."

"I think there's a good chance they will. Carter, I know these people. They won't stop looking. Not with the stakes so high."

"I didn't see anyone tailing us. I was watching for that," Carter insisted.

"I know you were. I was, too, but they're real pros."

"God."

His point made, Makepeace leaned back against the seat. They both sat silently for a moment, then Carter screwed up her courage and opened the car door. "I'll be right back," she told him, tucking the paper with the locker combination, the phone number, and the codes into her back pocket. Makepeace nodded, a neutral expression on his face.

She gave the M16 a regretful look, wishing she could take it along with her, but there was no way she could carry a military rifle on the city streets. She would have to make do with the Glock. She adjusted it in the waistband of her jeans and pulled her shirt down over it, feeling a little better with the cold, bulky pressure against her spine. Then she got out of the car and walked down the street, heading toward the station and trying to look casual. She didn't figure she was succeeding, to judge by the wary glances she received from passersby.

And why should she succeed at nonchalance, come to think of it? She was filthy and stinking, her clothes stained and torn. She started shuffling her feet a little and dropped her head, pretending to stare at the asphalt while keeping careful watch on her surroundings. If she couldn't pass for an ordinary person at the moment, maybe she could convince people she was one of the homeless she'd occasionally seen on nearby streets.

That seemed to be working better. People were actively ignoring her now. Slouching and shambling, Carter made her way to the station and slipped inside. The interior maintained the stately themes visible on the outside, and was reasonably well kept up. Its upkeep must be part of the city's historical building budget. The place wasn't very crowded, but there were enough people around in various states of both business and casual attire that she didn't feel too much like a target. She headed to a bored looking clerk.

"Excuse me."

The clerk looked down his long nose at her. "Yes?" His condescending tone bordered on outright rudeness.

Carter ground her teeth. Did she really look that disreputable? Upon reflection, she was forced to admit that she probably did. "Could you tell me where the lockers are?"

"Off to the right and around the corner." The clerk pointed.

"Thank you." Carter set off in the indicated direction. About three-quarters of the way across the room she cast a quick glance over her shoulder back at the clerk. He was grimacing and waving the air with a manila folder. Carter scowled.

Putting the clerk's bad manners aside, she glanced around one last time to make sure she wasn't being followed and ducked around the corner. She found herself in a short alcove lined with lockers, the new kind, with electronic combinations and keypads.

Carter pulled the paper from her pocket and looked it over, noting that she was after locker twenty-nine. She paced down the short hallway. Number twenty-nine was roughly half-way down the alcove, second up from the floor. She knelt and punched in the combination Makepeace had written down. The locker emitted a series of beeps and popped open. Carter swung the door open wide. Inside was an oversized, brown leather briefcase.

She pulled it out and cradled it reverently in her arms. To think, she held the secret of practical ZPE in her hands, something that was possibly the most revolutionary advance in physics since the Stargate was made operational. Not to mention the means of effectively neutering the NID, what with all those embarrassing paper and money trails Makepeace claimed to have documented. This briefcase was worth a hundred times its weight in diamonds, if not more.

More, she decided. Infinitely more.

Still kneeling, she quickly spun the tumblers on the briefcase's locks, using the last combination Makepeace had given her, and was gratified to see the latches spring open. She didn't need the other notes he had written just yet, so she folded the paper and tucked it back into her pocket. Then she carefully lifted the briefcase's lid to have a look at its contents.

The first things she saw were three binders stuffed full of papers and six loaded spindles of CDs. Unable to resist temptation, Carter flipped through one of the binders and let out a low whistle. No wonder Hartley wanted this stuff so badly.

There were photocopies of requisitions, authorizations, personnel transfers, operational procedures—it went on and on, page after page of signed documents. Just the little Carter saw was enough to shut down Hartley's operation and thoroughly embarrass any number of higher-ups—assuming it didn't destroy them utterly. It was seriously hard evidence; it could be used either officially or otherwise, depending upon the whims of whoever had it in hand. In fact, it was exactly the kind of thing that General Hammond and Colonel O'Neill had been looking for over the last couple of years.

Incredible.

The other two binders held similar documentation. Carter folded the cover over the last one with a resigned sigh. In spite of the gold mine of paper evidence, she couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. Apparently, Makepeace had put the scientific and technical information exclusively on the CDs. Not surprising, considering the sheer volume of data that such an enterprise would entail, but it was still a pity. She would have loved to get even a tiny peek at that.

A further search of the briefcase turned up Makepeace's fake ID, a number of credit cards, and a large hoard of cash: rolls of quarters and dimes, and thick bundles of bills, in small to medium sized denominations. Carter guessed it all might amount to twice her yearly salary—maybe more. Makepeace had, indeed, been prepared to run.

Somehow restraining herself from fondling the case, she slowly stood up, oblivious to everything except the treasure in her hands...

...and stiffened at the familiar voice that murmured in her ear, "Thank you, Major Carter."

Olmstead.

Carter closed her eyes and mentally ran through every profanity in her vocabulary. She should have known! She should have known it was going too easily. Makepeace had tried to warn her, but she had been so certain that she would spot anyone following her.

How had Olmstead managed it, anyway? She hadn't been careless; she had taken every precaution she could think of. Maybe some alien tracking device? It had become clear to her over the last two days that the NID probably still had more illicit off-world technology than anyone had given them credit for. That thought, she was forced to admit, was merely a sop for her ego. As Makepeace had said, these people were pros at covert games. She knew she was just an unlettered tyro by comparison.

Warily, she turned around. Dressed in a dark business suit, Olmstead was smirking at her knowingly. Another NID goon, at least six foot five and looking somewhat uncomfortable in his own suit, hulked nearby, one hand in a pocket. Carter was under no illusions about the likelihood that he had a handgun trained on her through the expensive fabric of his jacket.

Carter's mind worked at lightning speed, mentally running through different scenarios, looking for an escape route of some kind—any kind. As she analyzed these new enemies of hers, tried to work out how they thought, what they might do next, and what they might be expecting of her, the magnitude of both their duplicity and their utter ruthlessness finally hit her.

"This whole thing was a setup, wasn't it?" she said to them. "You always intended for us to escape, right from the moment you kidnapped me and locked me in that cell with Colonel Makepeace. Didn't you?"

A condescending look came over Olmstead's face. "Gee, you're as bright as everyone says you are," he said sarcastically. "You must be a fucking Ph.D."

The other thug chuckled unpleasantly. In spite of everything she'd recently learned about this particularly noxious branch of the NID, Carter was still shocked by their attitudes. "My God, you sacrificed five of your own people just to set us up?" she asked, aghast. "How could you do that?"

Olmstead shrugged in an offhanded manner and said, "They were mercs," as though that explained everything. Carter could only stare at him. He held out one hand and waggled his fingers at her. "Now, hand it over, Major."

It seemed the NID, as usual, held all the cards. Carter's lips compressed into a fine line. No way in hell was she going anywhere with these monsters; she would not be their prisoner again, no matter what the cost. There was only one way out that she could see. She bowed her head in feigned surrender. "All right."

Although it broke her heart to do it, she flung the still-open briefcase outward with all her might. Binders, CDs, and money went flying at the two NID men. Immediately, Carter took off running, shoving Olmstead aside in the confusion and heading into the relative safety of the public terminal.

Indignant bystanders cried out and cursed at her as she bolted through, but she ignored them as she elbowed her way past the human obstacles with grim determination. About halfway to the exit, Carter risked a glance back. No one was following her. She slumped with relief that her guess had been sound: Olmstead and his buddy weren't willing to risk a confrontation in full view of witnesses. She knew she wasn't that important to them. With luck, they'd write her off, take their precious evidence, and vanish.

She dodged more people and aimed for the doors, heading for freedom.


	17. Chapter 17

It was amazing, Makepeace thought in resignation, how claustrophobic a Ford Fairlane became when one was sharing it with a well-armed, NID-indoctrinated USAF officer. Makepeace had always thought that Lieutenant Petersen gave off particularly nasty vibes, and now was no exception. Sitting behind the wheel and dressed in casual civilian clothing, Petersen was the perfect image of an illegal black ops poster boy: tall, blond, tougher than nails and colder than liquid nitrogen. Makepeace wondered how many inconvenient people the good lieutenant had introduced to their Maker, wondered just how soon he himself might join their number.

Outside the passenger's door, a sallow, dark-haired gorilla stood guard. Michaels was another of Hartley's pet mercenaries, selected for size, strength, skill, and aggression. Due to his own incarceration and interrogation, Makepeace could personally attest to how well Michaels fulfilled his job requirements. Uncaring of what others thought of him, the mercenary kept a wary eye on their surroundings, studiously casual, his hands hidden deceptively in his pockets.

Not that there was a whole lot to watch. Makepeace and Carter had chosen this alley because it was out of the way and relatively unused. One or two other cars were parked along the shoulder, but no unsuspecting pedestrians had wandered by that Makepeace had noticed. Which was just as well, for their sakes.

Makepeace cursed himself for being caught so easily, but it had really been inevitable considering his physical state. In spite of his best efforts to stay alert, a week or more of pain, exhaustion, and terror had taken its toll, and he had drifted off into a hazy gray twilight, roused only when the business end of a Ruger P95 9mm pistol had poked through the open window and nuzzled him under the chin. The rush of adrenaline that followed was more than enough to rouse him to full wakefulness and keep him there indefinitely.

Damned open windows. Makepeace had been even more enchanted by fresh air than Carter, and hadn't been able to bear the thought of rolling them up. Wouldn't have helped him if he had, though. The two NID men would have just smashed them open, and maybe smashed his head in while they were at it.

Without saying a single word, both men had made it very clear to Makepeace that he wasn't going anywhere. Michaels had concealed his weapon and taken up a position just outside the passenger's door. After unloading the two M16s and chucking them into the back seat, Petersen had slid into the car behind the steering wheel, wrinkling his nose at the smell.

Although he was repressing some serious panic, Makepeace felt a certain vindictive pleasure at Petersen's reaction. He knew he stank, and he hoped to God that the stench made Petersen sick.

Grimly, he wondered how Carter had made out. If Hartley's guys had located him already, they must be on her tail, as well. More than once, he found himself praying that Carter had taken the hint and ditched him, that she'd had the good sense to just grab the evidence and the money, and run like hell. That way at least something good would come of this whole fucking fiasco.

Knowing her, though, she probably hadn't. At heart, she was a decent human being. Too bad.

It was pretty pathetic, Makepeace thought with a touch of self-disparagement, to be disappointed because a sometime ally wouldn't abandon you.

Somehow, he had to escape, before Carter made her way back to the car and waltzed straight into a deathtrap with everything Hartley wanted in her hot little hands. Makepeace knew he didn't have much of a chance at such an enterprise. Even if he did manage to overpower or elude Petersen and Michaels, he wouldn't get very far very fast with a broken ankle. Then again, perhaps the commotion would warn Carter off.

A high-pitched trill emanated from one of Petersen's pockets. He pulled out his cell phone and answered it brusquely. "Petersen."

The lieutenant listened to the voice on the other end, nodding and making little grunting noises of understanding. "Yeah, gotcha," he concluded with a sly glance at Makepeace and the big mercenary standing just outside the passenger door.

Shit. Something was up. Makepeace watched with undisguised paranoia as Petersen stuffed the phone back into his pocket.

"That Olmstead?" Michaels asked, leaning in the window and dangling his gun in a seemingly careless fashion. Makepeace eyed it with longing, but knew better than to take the bait. Michaels just wanted an excuse to pound on him, and there was no sense in getting his ass kicked just yet. He'd wait until there was at least a marginal chance of success at running.

Petersen grinned. "Yeah. They got the stuff. We need to get moving."

Makepeace could have screamed upon hearing that disastrous news. All that pain, for nothing. And they probably had Carter, too.

Although, Petersen hadn't said anything about her. Maybe she'd gotten away.

Yeah, and wasn't that a jet-powered pig soaring overhead?

It was all over. Makepeace closed his eyes and let out a defeated sigh. He wanted to weep. He didn't, though. Couldn't, wouldn't let these bastards see that they'd finally beaten him down. He resolved to go down fighting, like a Marine by God, cursing his enemies every step of the way.

"Let's go," Petersen said, getting out of the car. When Makepeace didn't move, the lieutenant blew out an exasperated breath, rolled his eyes skyward, and said, "Michaels."

With a curt nod, Michaels pulled open the door. "Come on, Colonel," he said, gesturing with his Ruger.

Slowly, Makepeace got out of the car, making a show of favoring his injured ankle. Last chance to get a little revenge, and maybe, if he was very, very lucky, actually escape.

That in mind, he cried out and faked a stumble. When Michaels moved in, Makepeace straightened suddenly and lashed out, aiming his fist at the mercenary's throat. With a quick, graceful movement, Michaels dodged the blow and drove a handful of rock-hard knuckles into Makepeace's gut. Makepeace doubled over, gasping for breath, and a hard, vicious elbow hammered into his spine. Makepeace fell and sprawled face-down on the asphalt. A brutal kick had him rolling onto his back, moaning.

He hadn't really expected to pull it off, but it had been worth a shot.

A cruel hand gripped the front of his shirt and hauled him half-upright. The last thing Makepeace saw was an enormous fist heading straight for his face.


	18. Chapter 18

Once outside the train station, Carter shifted back into her "homeless" persona. Slouching and grumbling, she shuffled back to where Makepeace was waiting. Her lowered head hid the fact that her eyes shifted back and forth in constant motion, alert for enemy activity. Her low-voiced, angry mutterings lent a certain credibility to her bag lady act, but she wasn't aware of that. All she could do was castigate herself and curse the way fate had backfired on her.

She'd lost everything: the data, the IDs, the money. She half expected to see NID goons around every street corner, and didn't dare take a moment to call Makepeace's little "come save my ass" number. Besides, she'd have to find, steal, or beg for some change to use a public phone, and she certainly didn't have time for that. She and Makepeace were truly on their own. All they could do was start driving, and hope they didn't get caught before they could contact someone friendly.

She crossed the street, watching the people and cars with suspicion, and headed for the alley where she'd left the Fairlane. She wasn't looking forward to breaking the bad news to Makepeace. He'd suffered an awful lot for the sake of that data. Well, so had she, she thought resentfully, although not as willingly as he had.

Midway to her destination she stopped dead and ducked around a corner. A beat up old van was parked just a little ways down the side street. The vehicle was covered with primer and old paint. Its sides were blank and ugly, and two black, one-way windows were set into its rear doors. The thing looked like it had been pulled out of a junkyard, but its disreputable appearance wasn't what stopped her. Instead it was the sight of the people heading toward it. Two men, dragging a third between them: Makepeace. He looked barely conscious.

Shit. Could this get any worse?

The two goons tossed Makepeace into the back of the van and slammed its doors shut. Then they stood by, talking quietly.

Carter stayed motionless, thinking fast. The whole world had gone to hell. Hartley'd used her to get Makepeace to reveal the location of the stolen data, and now the bastard had everything he wanted.

Makepeace, she was sure, was a dead man. No doubt Hartley was going to keep up the interrogation until he was absolutely convinced that all the loose ends had been tied up. Carter still didn't understand exactly what was going on, or who Makepeace was really working for, but there was no way in hell she was going to leave him to Hartley's tender mercies.

As she watched, the two guards conferred for a moment, then the blond one walked off in the direction of the train station. The remaining man started ambling back and forth by the back of the van. It wasn't the march of a guard on watch—more like the fidgeting of someone impatient to get moving.

The cold pressure of the pistol nestled against her spine tempted her, but she resisted. She couldn't just shoot the guard; the noise would alert the other NID goons to her presence and, outnumbered, the odds were too high that she'd be recaptured. She fingered the gun anyway, even though she realized that she had to try something else.

The Glock itself was lightweight, made not of iron but of plastics and composite materials—she might be able to knock the guard out with it, but it wasn't her first choice. Glocks were reputed to be indestructible, but nonetheless she wasn't willing to do something that might damage her only gun.

Frowning, she took stock of her surroundings. The building she was hiding behind was ramshackle and, in her opinion, should have been condemned years ago. Clearly, not all historic buildings got the same care as the train station. The mortar was old, crumbling, and some of the bricks were broken and loose. Carter chose the likeliest one and started working it free. A few minutes later she held the brick in her hand, weighing it thoughtfully as she looked at the lone guard.

Taking a firm grip on her crude weapon, Carter moved toward the van, careful to stay out of the guard's line of sight. It wasn't hard—there were a few parked cars lining the street that she could stroll along behind, as well as entrances to low-rent apartment buildings. The guard checked his watch and meandered around to one side of the van. Carter sidled forward and pressed herself up against the opposite side. She lifted the brick and listened intently.

She heard approaching footsteps. She held her breath as they came nearer, and nearer, and then there was the blessed scuff of a heel as the man turned around to pace the other direction. In a flash she shifted behind the guard and used the brick to cold-cock him on the back of the head as hard as she could. He dropped like a stone. She didn't even bother checking to see if he was still alive; instead she yanked open the van's double doors.

Makepeace was sprawled face down on the floor. Carter quickly glanced around to make sure no one was coming, then got into the van and knelt beside him. She checked his pulse and breathing, then gently rolled him over.

Fresh blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and matted his hair, all on the left side of his head. She could have sworn that his old bruises had new bruises. His eyes were open but unfocused.

Drugs or a concussion? she wondered. Hell, why not both? She wouldn't put it past the bastards. At least he was still alive. It was too bad he wasn't cognizant enough take advantage of a breakout without help, but then again, given Makepeace's condition she supposed it was a miracle that he was conscious at all. She pulled him up to a sitting position, saying, "Come on, Colonel, it's time to go."

For an instant he seemed to actually recognize her. He lifted his head and mouthed her name, then his eyes rolled up and he passed out.

"Damn it, we don't have time for this," Carter muttered as Makepeace sagged bonelessly against her. His body was a dead weight in her arms. She shook him but got no response. "Colonel—"

The dull sound of metal slamming made her slew around in shock. The van's double doors were shut. There came the loud click of a door latch being set.

"No," she whispered, staring at the doors. She eased Makepeace to the floor, scrambled across the van. The inside door handles were missing. She pounded on the doors, kicked them, yelling, "Dammit, no! No!"

As though mocking her outburst, the engine rumbled and the van started moving. It took a sharp right turn that made the whole vehicle sway and creak and knocked Carter off balance. Her knees hit the floor with such jarring force that she cried out.

Carter braced her hands against the floor to steady herself and closed her eyes, barely restraining herself from banging her head against a wall in frustration. Hartley and his goons had suckered her again. They'd let her assault that guard, knock him out, maybe even kill him, just like they'd deliberately sacrificed those men back at their base. They'd manipulated her into coming to them to be trapped, rather than conspicuously dragging her, kicking and screaming, or unconscious, through the public streets.

Damn it all to hell! Now, because of her gullibility, not only did the bad guys have the evidence that Makepeace had so painstakingly collected and hidden, but the two of them could both look forward to more interrogation. She shivered. Hartley was probably going to finish what he started before she and Makepeace had "escaped." Supposing they actually managed to survive, no doubt they would both receive a well-placed bullet to the head when the NID director was through with them.

Her eyes scanned every nook and cranny of the van, searching for a way out. There was none. The interior wasn't fancy; mostly it was covered in cheap plastic panels that had seen better days. There were no exposed controls remaining to the doors, windows, or locks. They all appeared to have been pried or broken off.

She felt the Glock wedged in her jeans. Hartley's goons didn't realize she still had a weapon. She couldn't get at the driver, though; there was a windowless barrier protecting the front of the van. The installation job looked rough, like it had been performed in a hurry by amateurs. Probably by Hartley's mercenaries. Still, the barrier was solid enough. She cursed herself for getting so preoccupied with Makepeace's condition that she hadn't noticed the trap. Like Olmstead's confession, the van's interior modifications confirmed her theory that their escape and recapture had been planned from the start.

She had to come up with a Plan B. Maybe she could shoot the lock on the back door. Since the rest of the van hadn't been modified too much, she suspected the door lock was just an ordinary cheap cylinder lock. It probably couldn't take much punishment. Chances were good it would break easily. Still, she didn't like the idea. Ricochets would be deadly in this enclosed space.

She crawled to the back and inspected the doors. Perhaps she could get at the lock and latch mechanism. Unfortunately, the plastic panels were on tight, and she had nothing to use to pry them off. If only she had one stupid screwdriver, instead of a pistol. Now, there was a trade she'd never considered before.

Carter thought about that for a moment. Maybe she could shoot the plastic to break it. With luck, the plastic material might also absorb the bullets' energy and minimize ricochets, if she were very careful. Many plastics were pretty good at stopping bullets. But if a bullet grazed the surface, instead of breaking through, things could get a little too interesting...

This course of action was only slightly better than just plain shooting at the lock. Still, the panel should fracture from the gunshot hits. She could pull the broken plastic off with her hands, jimmy the lock and latch, and pop open the door. Then they could jump—out of a moving vehicle. Carter winced, and wondered if she could manage to get the doors open before the NID thugs caught on to what she was doing.

Okay, so it wasn't the greatest plan in the world, but it was the only chance she and Makepeace had. They had to at least try to get away. First, however, she needed to get Makepeace up and around. She crawled over to him and lightly patted his face. "Come on, Colonel, wake up." Nothing. She hit him a little harder, the pats becoming actual slaps, and hoped she wasn't making his injuries any worse. "Makepeace! Damn it! Wake up!"

After a few more slaps he moaned. His eyelids fluttered, and he turned his head away, one hand batting the air weakly. She grabbed his collar, pulled his face up close to hers, and shouted like a drill instructor, "Goddammit, Marine! Open your eyes and look at me!"

The authority in her voice got through to him. His eyes opened, fixed blearily on her face. "Ca— Carter?" he faltered.

"Yeah." She helped him sit up and lean against the wall, wincing in sympathy at his hiss of pain. "Your former * _friends*_ ," her voice spat venom at the word, "used us to get your data, and now they've got us locked in a van. We're going to have to make a run for it." She pulled the pistol out of her waistband and showed it to him. "I've still got Dorsett's gun. I'll shoot the door, spring open the lock, and we'll jump out. Do you understand?"

He shook his head, then groaned and grabbed it with both hands, eyes clenched shut. "Carter," he managed, "we're moving—"

"We're probably only doing thirty-five or so. We'll jump and roll."

"Only." He let out a shaky laugh that ended in a gasp. "You might make it. With my broken ankle, I don't think I—"

"I'm not leaving you behind. No arguments."

"Carter—"

"No arguments," she repeated.

He stared at her for a moment, then dropped his eyes and slowly nodded. "All right."

Carter frowned at him. The easy capitulation worried her a little. Then she shrugged. The protest had probably just been a knee-jerk reaction. After all, he really didn't have any choice in the matter. They both knew what the alternative was. Besides, he was so weak she had absolutely no doubt at all that she could force him along if she had to.

Before that line of thought went any further, the van slowed and came to a stop. Carter stood up, crouching a little to keep from hitting her head on the ceiling. Dear Lord, had they already reached their destination, whatever it was? The engine hadn't shut off. That had to be a good sign, right? She hurried over to the back of the van and peered out the one-way window. There was a short line of cars waiting on the road behind them. Carter exhaled, relieved; she figured they must have stopped for a red light.

Five cars back, Carter saw a rack of police lights, and her heart skipped a beat. A patrol car! She felt like laughing. Who said there was never a cop around when you needed one? The odds of success had suddenly tipped in their favor, but they had to go now. There would never be a better opportunity.

"Cover your face," she told Makepeace, then shielded her own face with one arm and aimed the pistol at the right door, hoping like hell no splinters or stray ricochets nailed either of them.

She pumped out rounds as fast as she could pull the trigger. The plastic fractured. A few bullets did ricochet, but luckily most embedded themselves in the van's siding, and a rear window shattered. She moved forward and hammered on the broken panel with the gun's butt. Murphy had been against her so many times in the last two days that she was surprised when the plastic cooperated and broke apart.

The whole operation had taken less than thirty seconds, but those NID bastards up front had to have heard the gunfire. Panic drove her now. Heedless of the remaining shards, she reached in and felt for the latch. The mechanism was cheap, ancient, and simple, so she grabbed and pulled hard. The lock fell out of its damaged slot and clattered somewhere inside the door. My god, Carter thought with shock, something's finally gone my way!

Another yank, and the doors flew open. Carter tossed the empty gun aside, grabbed Makepeace, and dove out of the van.

Makepeace screamed as he landed on his bad ankle. He fell to his hands and knees, dragging Carter down with him. "Come on! Get up!" she shouted at him. She yanked him back to his feet and dragged him forward, staggering alongside the line of waiting cars. She risked a quick glance back; Hartley's two goons were already out of the van, heading toward them. After a few steps Makepeace got his second wind and did his best to limp along, although without Carter's support he would never have been able to remain upright.

The surprised drivers were gaping at them. Some were yelling. Carter ignored them all and made for the patrol car, hauling Makepeace along with her, hoping to God that the cop wasn't part of some trick, that he didn't work for Hartley. She saw that the officer had flipped on his flashing lights and was already calling in—no doubt about the way they'd exited the van—then he got out of his car, pulling his gun. Carter prayed he had called for backup from Eddington's police, not the NID.

"Help!" she shrieked. "Please, help us! Please!" The goons were closing in. Damn, it was going to be close.

The cop was moving forward through the cars. The two goons saw him and immediately reversed direction. They climbed back into the van and hit the gas. Horns blared and one car spun out as they ran the red light and tore off down the road. The van took a right turn and disappeared from sight.

Carter gasped with relief. The cop was legit. They'd really made it out. Makepeace stumbled and sagged against her. She gently lowered him to the ground, murmuring, "It's all right, it's all right. They're gone now. They're gone." She wasn't sure who she was reassuring, Makepeace or herself. Maybe both.

"Are you people all right? What's happened to you?"

Carter looked up. The patrolman stood before her, appraising the two of them and taking in their less than reputable appearance. He was a clean cut young man, probably in his mid-twenties, with an earnest look that reminded her a little of Graham Simmons. She noticed he kept his gun out and ready. Obviously he was a more suspicious type than Simmons. She could only imagine what he must be thinking at the sight of her and Makepeace: battered and bedraggled, filthy and reeking. Hardly a good image to inspire confidence or trust. She decided to try for sympathy, instead.

"Oh, thank God," she said, allowing an edge of hysteria to creep into her voice. "Please, help us. Oh, God." That last phrase ended in a sob that was all too real.

"Ma'am?"

"Those men—they kidnapped my... my husband and me!" Carter choked out. "They hurt us... Please..."

"Ma'am, calm down and stay still." The gun pointed at them unwaveringly.

Carter intended to be very cooperative. She sat beside Makepeace, offering no resistance, and babbled hysterical nonsense at the poor cop, who looked more confused by the minute. Fortunately, his backup arrived shortly. Two more police cars maneuvered around the stopped vehicles and gaping drivers. One cop got out to direct traffic out of the way. The cars started rolling by. The other officer joined Carter, Makepeace, and the young, suspicious cop.

The young cop gave the new arrival a quick recap. Carter heard him mention how the van's window had shattered as though it had been shot at. Good call, she thought. That accounted for the cautious way he'd been treating her, although she wished he were less suspicious. The officer finished with, "Let's check 'em over and call an ambulance. I'm not sure what's going on here, but the man there's in pretty bad shape, and the woman's hysterical."

The new cop nodded and approached Carter slowly. "I need to check you two for weapons," he said, almost apologetically.

Carter thought it was pretty obvious that she and Makepeace weren't a danger to anyone, but she held her tongue and nodded, sniffling loudly. "We don't have anything. Please, help us, officer." She gazed up with wide eyes.

The cop looked self-conscious, but checked them both. He called back to his friend. "They're clear. Let's get this business out of the road."

Carter sniveled some more. "Oh, God, why won't you help us?" she wailed.

"Ma'am, calm down. Let's get you off the road, all right? Here, let me give you a hand." The officer helped Carter with Makepeace. "Come on, we'll go back to my car, okay?"

Carter had no intention of spurning the offer, nor did she care that the young cop kept his hand on his gun at all times. With the second officer's help, she got Makepeace into the back seat of the patrol car. The officer then leaned into the driver's side and called his dispatcher, relaying what he knew about the situation and requesting an ambulance.

Carter sat in the back seat and let her head drop backwards with a heavy sigh, then forced herself to check on her companion. Makepeace was unconscious again, but he seemed to be breathing okay and his pulse was strong. She closed her eyes, relieved.

"Ma'am, he all right? He looks pretty bad." The patrolman who had helped her stood by the back door, watching her, his expression kind and reassuring.

"I think so. He's alive, at any rate."

"Are you all right?"

She touched a particularly painful bruise on her cheek. "Yeah," she said weakly. "Thanks to you, Officer—?"

"Officer Randall, ma'am."

She managed a small smile. "Becky. Becky Abernathy," she said, thinking fast and improvising on the cover Makepeace had set up. "This is my husband, Zach." She wasn't fool enough to give the officer their real names, not when she couldn't be certain who to trust. Officer Randall was probably okay, but who knew who might be listening in on the police bands, or for that matter, who might be working for Hartley at the police station?

"Ambulance'll be here in a few minutes. I need to get us out of traffic."

Carter nodded. Randall started the engine and parked the patrol car on the side of the road, out of the way of the passing cars on the street. Then he got out and crouched by the rear door, looking at Carter sympathetically.

"You think you can tell me what happened?" he asked.

Carter licked her lips, trying to remember exactly what she'd shouted while escaping. "I'm not sure," she lied. "Those men... I've never seen them before. Zach and I... we're here on vacation. They had guns, they made us go with them. They locked us up for days. They tortured Zach—they were going to rape me. I don't know what they wanted—" Her voice rose shrilly.

"Easy, ma'am. You're safe now. How did you get away?"

"I stole a gun, when one of them, when he..." She breathed hard, feigning hyperventilation. "He groped me, before he threw me in the van, so he didn't notice. I shot at the doors, I must've hit something right—"

The first officer came over. "That jives with what I saw," he told Randall.

"Good thing those guys were so sloppy. But you were damn lucky that stunt you pulled worked," Randall said to Carter. "You could've killed yourself shooting at a door like that."

Carter drew a deep, shuddering breath and buried her face in her hands. "Oh, God," she whispered, putting on her very best "I'm in shock and falling apart" act. It wasn't hard to pull off. Now that she felt reasonably safe again, the events of the last two days were finally catching up to her. The rush of adrenaline that had kept her moving and alert was gone, leaving her feeling curiously weak. Officer Randall frowned worriedly.

"Ma'am, are you sure you're all right?"

"I— I don't know. I think so. But Zach..." She blinked a few times, then turned her gaze onto Makepeace in a decent facsimile of wifely concern, fading terror, and blank confusion.

Randall stood up. "He'll be okay, ma'am. The doctors'll patch him up good as new," he said encouragingly.

The blare of sirens saved Carter from having to reply. An ambulance arrived, followed closely by yet another patrol car. Randall waved and called, "Over here. Got some injuries."

Two paramedics and another officer hurried over to the patrol car. As Randall explained the situation, the paramedics helped Carter out of the car and started working on Makepeace. With practiced efficiency they checked him over, eased him from the back seat onto a gurney and hooked up an IV. Carter watched silently as they bundled him into the ambulance. Makepeace had never regained consciousness since he'd passed out again in the patrol car. She hoped he would be all right. She closed her eyes against a sudden wave of dizziness.

"You all right, ma'am?"

She was getting awfully tired of hearing that question. Did she really look that bad? She opened her eyes with effort. One of the paramedics stood before her, looking at her with concern. "You don't look so good," he said. "Why don't you let us check you out? You can ride along with your husband to the hospital."

Her husband? Oh, right, he meant Makepeace. Zach. Whatever. Carter rubbed her temples and reminded herself to keep to the cover story. Couldn't let their real identities get broadcast all over the emergency bands. She didn't think she could handle another encounter with Hartley's goons. Besides, the emergency room was no place for a fight.

"Ma'am?"

"Uh, yes?" Carter looked up at the paramedic with a vague expression.

"Ma'am, let's go check you out, all right?"

Were all paramedics that earnest? What would he do if she said no? Not that she intended to—she didn't want to get separated from Makepeace. If only her thinking weren't so clouded. Maybe she could lie down on the way to the hospital. That seemed like a good idea. Hell, it was a great idea. Carter nodded to the paramedic and gratefully let him lead her to the ambulance.


	19. Chapter 19

At Saint Francis General Hospital, a team of medical personnel met the ambulance and whisked Makepeace off to parts unknown without so much as a by-your-leave. Afraid for him, for herself, terrified that Hartley might have someone working for him on the hospital staff, Carter tried to follow. Officer Randall, who had ridden in with them, halted her with a hand to her arm.

"You don't understand," she protested, pulling away from his grip. "I've got to stay with him."

"He'll be all right, ma'am," he reassured her. "The doctors'll take good care of him. You need to come with me."

"But—"

"You can't do anything for him, ma'am. Please, let's get you inside. You'll see your husband later."

Carter forced herself to calm down and walked with Randall and another paramedic into the hospital. She looked around, wary to the point of paranoia. She was surrounded by normalcy: linoleum floors, beige walls, a few people in white lab coats moving about purposefully. There was nothing to suggest that she was anywhere other than a small town hospital, no sign of any suspicious activity whatsoever. Maybe it would be all right.

To judge by appearances, it was a slow night in the emergency room. Only a few people were waiting in the hard, plastic chairs, and their injuries looked pretty routine. A lone nurse manned the admitting station. Randall steered Carter to a chair, while the paramedic went to the desk and started talking to the nurse.

Carter watched them for a few minutes, overheard the paramedic saying, "...pretty worried about her husband. Can you find out anything?" The nurse nodded and picked up a phone. The sight jarred Carter's mind back to business. She needed to get to a phone. Not the one at the nurse's desk, if she could avoid it. She didn't want anyone listening in while she used Makepeace's codes. It would be impossible to explain.

Two more policemen entered the emergency room. Carter recognized one of them as the first officer, the one she had originally run to. Of course, they had followed the ambulance in. She and "Zach" were kidnap and assault victims, after all. The cops spotted her and Randall and started in their direction.

"Mrs. Abernathy," one of the cops greeted her as she stood up. "You being treated okay? How's your husband?"

Carter reverted back into her "shocked wife" persona and put on a shaky smile. "I guess I'm okay," she replied timorously, "but I don't know where Zach is."

The other cop said, "The nearest FBI field office is in Salt Lake City. They'll be here in a few hours."

Carter was getting paranoid again. "You called the FBI? Was that necessary? I mean, we're free now, right?"

"We're not equipped for kidnapping cases, and they like to be kept in the loop." He shrugged. "It wasn't required, since the whole thing's pretty much over and you're adults, but it can't hurt. They might be able to get a lead on the guys that snatched you."

It can't hurt? Says you, Carter thought. What if the NID had tentacles inside the FBI?

The paramedic wandered back over and looked at Carter. "I just talked to Debbie. Your husband's pretty battered, but the docs think he'll be okay. They're taking him into surgery for his ankle just as soon as they get his X-rays and blood work back."

"Surgery?" Carter asked. "For his ankle? They can't just set it?"

The nurse moved out from behind her desk, a clipboard in hand. She wore a name tag that read, "Deborah Reynolds, R.N." This was the paramedic's "Debbie," obviously. She said, "It'll depend on what his pictures look like, but Doctor Moore thinks the damage is pretty severe. He figures they'll need to put in a pin or two to hold the bones together."

"Oh."

"Don't worry, it'll be fine. Your husband'll be up and around in no time." Nurse Reynolds held out the clipboard and said apologetically, "I hate to ask this right now, but procedure, you know. When you get the chance, I just need some information from you, Mrs. Abernathy."

"Information?"

"Insurance, medical history, release forms, that sort of thing. You can take your time. There's no hurry."

"I don't have anything with me. I don't know my insurance number," Carter tried to put the nurse off. "I've got nothing." She appealed to Officer Randall. "Please, tell her." Her voice rose with calculated hysteria, and she covered her face with her hands. "Oh, God, oh, God," she cried out.

"Take it easy, ma'am. It's okay. We understand," Randall tried to soothe her, rubbing her arm lightly. "Here, let's sit you back down."

Carter jerked away from him. "I want to use the phone! Please, please, let me use the phone. I've got to call—"

"Shhhhh, it's okay, you can use the phone." Randall waved Nurse Reynolds away. She nodded in understanding, left her clipboard with the other officer, and went back to her station.

"Where's the phone?" Carter whimpered, managing a credible sniffle. "I've got to use the phone. Please, where is it?"

An officer pointed to a line of three pay phones across the room. Carter took one step in that direction, then stopped and turned around. "I don't have any money," she said in a helpless little voice.

Officer Randall dug in his pockets and handed her some quarters. "Here you go, Mrs. Abernathy." His whole body radiated sympathy. At least she had one ally.

"Thank you." Carter went over to a phone, then found herself hesitating. Did she really want to do this? What if Makepeace's people were no better than Hartley's? A moment's thought reminded her of Makepeace's own suggestion: that she just keep her head down until his friends showed up and, while they and Hartley's crew kept each other busy, get the hell out of Dodge.

Her decision made, she dropped the coins into the slot and pulled out the slip of paper Makepeace had given her, careful to keep it hidden from view. She dialed. She was greeted only by the soft hiss of dead air, but she had expected that. "Ferret," she said quietly but precisely, reading from the note. "Zulu nine five arc light alpha."

"Transferring," a mechanical voice said.

She waited.

Less than half a minute later, an authoritative male voice snapped, "Makepeace! What's wrong? Why the hell are you on this line?"

Carter almost dropped the phone in that instant of shocked recognition. "Gen— General Hammond?" she faltered.

There was a moment's silence on the other end. Then, "Major Carter?"

"Sir?"

"Good Lord." Hammond's voice shook. He said, more gently, "Carter, where are you? How did you get this number?"

"Colonel Makepeace gave it to me, sir. He said—"

"I know what he probably said. Where are you?"

"Um, Eddington, Montana," Carter managed to get out, still stunned to be talking to General Hammond. This latest twist had her mind racing in circles like a puppy chasing its tail. "At Saint Francis General Hospital. The doctors are working on Colonel Makepeace right now."

"What? Carter—" Hammond broke off. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, as though he was soothing a skittish colt. "Carter, we've been worried sick about you. Can you give me the abridged version of what happened?"

"Sir, I'm still not exactly sure what's going on. Some faction of the NID kidnapped me, but it was a mistake, and... Colonel Makepeace was a prisoner, too. We escaped, but I think they'll try to come after us. Sir, what should I do now?"

"Just stay put, Carter. We'll get some people mobilized to keep an eye on you for now. I'll be up to collect you ASAP."

General Hammond was coming himself? Just how important was this operation of Makepeace's? Carter pulled her unruly thoughts into order and warned the general, "Sir, the police are asking questions."

"The police? The police are involved?" Hammond sounded dumbfounded.

"They said they've contacted the FBI, as well."

"Damn it. Look, Carter, just do what you can to stall them," he suggested. "Makepeace gave you the cover, right?"

"Only a name, and I had to improvise on that. I'm Becky Abernathy, his wife."

Hammond made a noise that sounded like a cross between a snort and a chuckle. "I think we can work with that," he told her.

"Sir, I also told the police we were here on vacation when we were kidnapped."

"That'll work fine. Just stick with what you've already told them so far. Don't give them any more details. We'll head off the FBI and take care of the rest."

"Sir—"

"Hang tight, Carter. It's almost over."

"Yes, sir."

"Hang tight," the general repeated. "I swear on my honor we'll get you out." Then the connection was broken.

Carter stared at the handset dumbly, then mechanically set it back in its cradle. Hammond and Makepeace? That didn't make any sense. Unless... Had Makepeace switched sides again? Was he working for General Hammond now? Had he already made the deal she had suggested to him earlier? That would certainly account for his laughter when she had suggested he return to the SGC.

She glanced at the three officers politely waiting just out of hearing range. She supposed she must have looked faint, since Officer Randall practically leapt to her side and took her arm to support her. "Are you all right, ma'am?" he asked.

"I've got friends coming. They're flying up. I think." Carter considered that for a minute. "I guess it'll be a few hours before they get here." She wondered with a touch of anticipation what would happen then. What was the general up to?

She knew Makepeace wanted to screw the NID. Hammond would cheerfully aid and abet such a desire. Still, the theory had a few too many flaws for Carter to be entirely comfortable with it.

If only she weren't so tired—if only she could think straight...

"Nice friends," Randall commented.

"That'll give you time to fill out a report, ma'am," the first officer said.

"Fill out a report?" Carter echoed. What the hell was she supposed to do now?

Stick to the cover story, General Hammond had said. What cover story? Makepeace had given her a name to use, but nothing suitable for a police report. Was she supposed to make up an address, a phone number, a place of employment? Suppose Makepeace's cover was so complete that those details were already on file somewhere? The police would spot her contradictory information as soon as they ran it through their computers. Would the general's people get here before the police saw through her?

"She can fill out your paperwork later, gentlemen," a pleasant contralto announced with authority. A middle-aged woman with graying brown hair and kind eyes came up to Carter and the three policemen. "We need to check her over first. Is that all right?" Her words were placatory, but her attitude clearly stated that she would brook no interference from mere minions of the law. She added, "She won't be going far."

"Of course, Doctor Gilford," the first officer agreed. "Just let us know when you're finished."

Officer Randall winked at Carter and squeezed her hand. Murmuring reassurances, Doctor Gilford escorted her off to an examination room.


	20. Chapter 20

Doctor Gilford conducted a quick examination then told Carter she'd be fine, that she had some cuts along with some painful looking contusions, but overall nothing life threatening.

No kidding, Carter thought.

Gilford added that once she got cleaned up and had a little food and rest she'd be right as rain. After taking care of Carter's injuries, the doctor escorted her to a private hospital room. Doctor Gilford pointed out the small bathroom off to the side and, with a wrinkled nose and a mischievous expression, told Carter to take a shower.

Carter was only too willing to comply with that medical order. The hospital's pristine surroundings served to emphasize that she was filthy and stank to high heaven. She cranked up the hot water and let the spray beat against her sore and tired body.

A sharp knock jolted her back to alertness. Doctor Gilford stuck her head through the door and announced, "It's only me, don't worry. I'm just leaving a change of clothes for you on the toilet." Then the doctor shut the door, leaving Carter alone in the bathroom.

Carter allowed herself ten minutes in the shower, luxuriating in the hot water, the steam, the soap. Especially the soap. Eventually, though, her concern about the precariousness of her situation overrode her newfound feeling of physical well-being. She shut off the water, got out, and dried herself briskly.

Gilford had supplied her with some hospital scrubs, and Carter pulled them on with intense gratitude. She had almost forgotten what clean clothes felt like.

Feeling human for the first time since she'd been kidnapped from "Joe's," Carter slipped out of the bathroom. "Hi again," she said to the waiting doctor.

Gilford smiled at her and patted the foot of the bed. The covers were already pulled down, exposing the crisp, white sheets. "Okay, that was the 'clean up' part of my prescription. Now for the 'fed' and 'rest' parts." Carter noticed a tray on the bed that held a tuna sandwich and a glass of orange juice. Her stomach, too long neglected, rumbled at the sight of the food. She snatched up the sandwich and took a huge bite.

"I figured you were hungry," the doctor said, watching her with amused sympathy.

Carter mumbled something incoherent between mouthfuls. The sandwich and juice were disposed of in short order. When Carter finished eating, Gilford said, "Now, to bed with you."

Oh, that bed looked so tempting. All Carter wanted to do was sleep for a week, especially now that she had a full stomach. Still, her sense of responsibility, not to mention her paranoia, told her she should refuse. She asked pointedly, "How's Zach?"

"Your husband's in surgery, even as we speak. Doctor Moore is still putting his ankle back together. It shouldn't take too much longer. You'll be able to see him when you wake up." Gilford again patted the bed. "Now, be a good patient and take your nap."

"But the police... They still want to talk to me."

"They'll keep."

"What about—"

"Mrs. Abernathy," Gilford said firmly, "I understand that you're still very upset and..." She paused, then continued delicately, "...a little nervous, but I assure you, we won't let anything happen to you or your husband. The police have already posted a guard right outside this room. You'll be perfectly safe."

You don't know these people, Carter thought, but naturally she couldn't say anything to the doctor about the NID. Instead, she reminded herself of Hammond's reassurances that he would set some people to watch the hospital. She considered the woman standing before her, realizing that there was no graceful way to refuse. It was clear she wouldn't be allowed to roam the hospital looking for potential kidnappers. Her options were limited, so she said, "Thank you," and crawled into bed.

Gilford nodded approvingly and proffered a small paper cup containing two pills. "To help you relax a little," she explained when Carter gave her a suspicious look.

"I don't want any drugs."

"But—"

"I said no." Carter widened her eyes and put on a scared, helpless fawn act. "I'm afraid if I sleep— If they come back and I can't wake up in time—"

"Shhhh," Gilford soothed her, looking completely taken in. "I understand. It's okay, you don't have to take the pills. They'll be here if you decide you want them, though." She set the cup next to a glass of water on the bed stand. "Just promise me you'll try to rest."

"I will. I promise."

"Good. Now lie back." As Carter settled against the pillows, Gilford actually tucked her in, pulling the covers up to her shoulders. "Remember, there's a policeman right outside. And if you need anything, anything at all, just push the call button." She indicated the device with a wave of her hand. "Now get some sleep, and everything will seem better when you wake up. You'll see."

Carter nodded. Apparently satisfied, Gilford dimmed the lights and quietly left the room, closing the door behind her.

In all honesty, Carter didn't object to the notion of sleep, but felt she couldn't, or shouldn't, afford herself the luxury just yet. She again reminded herself that Hammond had promised that she and Makepeace would be safe, and had to admit that there wasn't much she could do at the moment except wait for the general to arrive. She just had to play the role of traumatized patient for a little while longer, that was all.

As she closed her eyes, Carter reflected with amusement that she was becoming quite an actress. If she ever needed to change careers, there was always Hollywood. On that thought, and without realizing what was happening, she dropped off to sleep.


	21. Chapter 21

When Carter awoke she was relieved and a little surprised to find herself still in the hospital bed, Doctor Gilford and General Hammond's earlier assurances notwithstanding. She glanced at the bedside clock and started a little. Had she really been asleep for over three hours?

Hell, she shouldn't have gone to sleep. There were still too many variables to take into account. She didn't know what Makepeace's status was. She didn't know when Hammond would arrive with reinforcements. Damn it, she didn't know anything at all, she thought foully.

Now that she could think clearly again, it occurred to her that the treatment she had received had been quite unusual. Privileged, even. Doctor Gilford had pulled off an unusual coup. The police hadn't been allowed to question her, and no one had gotten a single iota of information from her. The hospital had treated her and Makepeace without any kind of signed consent, or proof of ability to pay, or even a home address or next of kin. They'd both been taken care of without question.

That knowledge made Carter nervous.

She wondered about Doctor Gilford. The woman had appeared so conveniently, just when Carter had needed help to avoid the cops' questions. Was Gilford really nothing more than a kindly doctor, or was she one of those "people" General Hammond had said would be mobilized to keep an eye on things?

The aggravating thing was that she didn't dare ask. Suppose Gilford wasn't working for Hammond? Uncomfortable questions could be raised if Carter wasn't careful.

She let out a frustrated sigh. She might not be able to ask about her medical benefactress, but she could at least find out how Makepeace was doing. She pressed the call button for the nurse. While she waited, she heard voices outside. One sounded familiar. She sat up in bed, hardly daring to hope.

The door flew open, and there was none other than General Hammond, bigger than life and decked out in an expensive Western-style business suit the likes of which Carter had only seen on television shows like "Dallas."

"Becky, honey!" he boomed in the broadest Texas accent Carter had ever heard. "Thank Heavens you're all right." In three enormous strides he was at her bedside and enfolding her in a tender embrace. "Give your daddy a hug, Becky."

Gingerly, Carter hugged back. "Daddy?" she said, somewhat bemused.

"That's right, darlin', your daddy's right here to take care of his little girl."

Knowing now what was expected of her, Carter hugged him tighter. "Daddy," she sniffled, willingly falling into the role Hammond had defined for her. "I was so scared."

"Ah, darlin', don't you cry. It's all over. Daddy's gonna take care of everything."

"What about Zach?"

Hammond rubbed her back in a fatherly way. "He's okay, hon. The docs here tell me he got out of surgery a little while ago. Jan's with him in Recovery now."

Jan? Did he mean Janet Fraiser? Had she been dragged into this, too? Carter didn't dare ask aloud. Instead, she snuggled deeper into her "father's" embrace. "Thank goodness."

"It'll be all right," Hammond said comfortingly. "We'll be going home soon. Everything's fine now."

Carter looked beyond Hammond's shoulder and saw two dark-suited men standing on either side of the open door. She didn't recognize either of them. "Bodyguards?" she asked.

"Can't take any chances with my baby girl, now, can I? Don't you worry your pretty little head, honey. The FBI's here, too. Between us, we've got people all over the hospital."

Carter's eyes widened. He couldn't mean the real FBI, could he? No, that would be too risky. It had to be some act to fool the local police. "Thank you, Daddy," she murmured, finally pulling out of his arms. The role of spoiled little daddy's girl was getting a bit hard for her to maintain with a straight face.

As Hammond settled himself into a chair, two voices drifted in from the hallway. "Well, Doctor Moore would rather you didn't move him so soon, but we all certainly understand the need for security in this case. I assure you, Doctor Forrest, you'll have our full cooperation."

"Thank you, Doctor Gilford, I knew you'd understand." That was Fraiser's crisp voice. "The extra security is quite important. Also, it's been a horrible trauma for them both, and I'd like to get them into comfortable, familiar surroundings as quickly as possible."

"Of course."

The two doctors stepped into Carter's room. Fraiser dropped a small bag by the door and waited patiently. Doctor Gilford smiled and said, "Ah, a happy reunion, I see."

"It's just perfect, Doctor." Hammond stood courteously and grinned at her. "I was afraid I'd nevah see my li'l girl again." He was laying the urban cowboy accent on pretty thick.

"Well, she's safe and sound, now."

"That she is." Hammond beamed at Carter, then turned to Doctor Fraiser. "How's it going with Zach, Doctor Forrest?"

Carter started a little at the general's sudden formality of address. Up until now he had, rather amusingly, been referring to Fraiser as "Jan." She realized this must be another cue for her; Hammond was taking a small risk to let her know Fraiser's assumed identity. Of course. Sam Carter might not know who "Doctor Jan Forrest" was, but "Becky Abernathy" certainly would.

"My team is prepping him now, Mister Merriman," Fraiser reported. "We should be able to leave within the hour."

"Good, good. The sooner, the better." He shook Gilford's hand solemnly. "I can't thank you people enough. I'm sure there must be something I can do for you. How 'bout a nice donation for your fine hospital here, in my Becky's name, of course."

"That's really not necessary, Mister Merriman," Gilford protested, but Carter thought it was only for form. Small hospitals usually needed all the help they could get.

"Oh, it'll be my pleasure."

"Then thank you, very much."

"Jan," Hammond said to Fraiser, "why don't you help Becky here get ready to go?" He gestured to the two guards and added to Carter, "Dave and Mitch will be just outside the door, hon. No need to worry."

"Thank you, Daddy," Carter said meekly, fighting laughter at his solicitousness.

Hammond, Gilford, and the two guards left the small room. Carter looked at Fraiser and raised her brows. "Jan?"

Fraiser retrieved the bag and plunked it onto Carter's bed. "Your father's been worried sick, Mrs. Abernathy. We all were."

Carter took that response to mean she should stay in character and save the questions for later. Jeeze, this was worse than any prime time soap. Fraiser was being the perfect "Dallas" family doctor, referring to her "employer's" daughter so formally. Carter decided to take her cue from Hammond's over-the-top behavior and resolved to treat Fraiser just as casually as the general had. Playing a stuck-up daddy's girl had its perks. "It was awful, Jan," Carter sniveled. "I thought those horrible men were going to kill us."

Fraiser gave her an evil look, but continued to play her own role to the hilt. "Well, it's all over now. Don't you worry about a thing. Your father's got it all under control." The doctor dug into the bag and pulled out a designer jogging suit. "Here you go, Mrs. Abernathy. I figured this would be more comfortable for you after your ordeal than those tight jeans you like so much."

Carter bit her lip at Fraiser's disapproving tone, so at odds with the way the doctor's eyes were twinkling. "It's perfect, I'm sure," Carter said, putting a tiny cowgirl twang into her inflection.

In a voice choked with repressed laughter, Fraiser said, "Here, let's get you out of those scrubs." While Carter changed her clothes, the doctor fussed at her about how worried her father had been, and how he'd pulled out all the stops to find her and Zach.

Through Fraiser's carefully constructed chatter, Carter was given the pertinent facts of the cover story being employed. It also came straight out of "Dallas," she realized with amusement. Hammond was playing the role of a wealthy Texas oil man—although not wealthy enough to attract national headlines. His daughter and son-in-law—herself and Makepeace—had been kidnapped for ransom while on their way to a friend's ranch, the pretext for the two of them being in Montana. Hammond's people had already taken care of the police and FBI, as well as two local reporters who'd heard about the evening's excitement.

The town of Eddington would no doubt be gossiping about this lurid melodrama for years to come.

There was a knock on the door, then Hammond called, "Y'all decent in there?"

"Your father gets more impatient every day." Fraiser tsked as she opened the door and ushered her charge out of the room and into her "father's" care. A white-garbed man pulled the doctor aside. After a brief conference with him, Fraiser nodded at Hammond and followed the man down the corridor.

"Becky, hon, I know you're still upset, but we need to get going now." Hammond placed a fatherly arm around her shoulders and steered her down the hallway, alternately comforting his "daughter" and chatting amiably with Doctor Gilford the whole time. The two guards flanked them, and were joined by several others as they walked through the hospital.

Just outside, the group caught up with Fraiser. She supervised as Makepeace was loaded into a private ambulance, then climbed in after him. She was joined by two of her team, both white-uniformed men who looked more like they should be carrying M16s than stethoscopes and tongue depressors.

Hammond led Carter to a black limousine, parked to one side of the ambulance. Two more black cars completed the picture, one to the front, and the other behind the limo and ambulance.

One of the guards stood by the limo and opened the door politely. "Ma'am?" he said with a respectful little bob of his head.

I could get used to this royal princess treatment, Carter thought with a tiny smile. After a final farewell to Doctor Gilford, she climbed into the car and settled back against the comfortable seat. A moment later Hammond joined her, and the guard cum doorman sat across from them. Another guard was up front with the driver. The others got into their own designated automobiles.

As the cavalcade got underway, Carter finally allowed herself to believe that the nightmare might really be over.


	22. Chapter 22

The four-vehicle cavalcade drove to the municipal airport on the outskirts of Eddington. After the display of appropriate credentials, airport security allowed them to roll through the gates and right onto the tarmac, where a discreetly guarded private jet, engines already warmed up, awaited them. The guards by the plane were low-key, wearing civilian suits and keeping their weapons out of sight to avoid drawing attention to themselves and offending the sensibilities of the locals, but their purpose was obvious to Carter.

Fraiser and her team loaded Makepeace's gurney, then Carter, Hammond, and most of their escort boarded. As she settled herself in, Carter noticed that there were a few more people already seated in the plane, none of whom she recognized. She turned to Hammond, who sat next to her. "Gen—"

"I'll explain everything when we're airborne, Becky," he said, forestalling her questions. Carter nodded, chewing the inside of her cheek, willing to continue to play along until the general informed her it was safe to drop the act.

Half an hour later they were en route to Colorado. A distinguished, older gentleman, about Hammond's age and impeccably attired in a dark gray, three-piece suit, meandered up from the rear of the plane to Carter and the general. "George," he said, bobbing his head. "Want to introduce me?"

Hammond looked up at the man and sighed. "Yeah, better get this over with," he agreed. "Major Samantha Carter, this old reprobate is Richard Porter. He's with the CIA. What he does for them is probably best left unsaid, but try not to hold that against him. We go way back, to 'Nam."

"Which is why the CIA got mixed up in this fiasco of yours in the first place," Porter said.

"Be honest, Dick. You've been looking for an excuse for ages, now."

Porter laughed. "So I've got a few scores to settle. Who doesn't? It sure served your purposes."

"Admirably."

"Too bad the investigation was inconclusive. Would've made good fodder, otherwise. Still, despite the lack of solid evidence, I'll bet your man's got some intriguing hearsay to impart. His reports always made for fascinating reading."

Carter's head was going back and forth as though she were at a ping-pong match. Finally, she interrupted, "The CIA? What about the police and the FBI?"

General Hammond said, "We took care of that. Don't worry, they'll leave you alone."

Carter digested that. "So this means the CIA is investigating the NID?"

"Outside of this plane and a few secured environments, you need to keep that to yourself, Major," Porter reproved her.

Spy games? She shook her head. Spy versus spy, like in Mad Magazine. It was too absurd to be real. "I do not believe this. Colonel Makepeace—"

"Has been on the hot seat for some time now," Hammond admitted to her. "On special assignment. It was purely voluntary on his part, I assure you."

Carter was no longer operating at an extreme disadvantage. For the first time in two days, she wasn't running from bad guys, she wasn't being rushed through the sort of extraction gauntlet she usually associated with cheesy spy movies, and she wasn't so hungry and exhausted that she was about to drop dead, or so terrified and threatened that she could only focus on escape, evasion, and survival. So she was finally able to put the pieces together.

Makepeace had, indeed, been an NID mole working inside the SGC. He had most certainly passed information to the NID, and then later, actually muled technology for them—with the full and complete backing of General Hammond. In fact, Hammond had as much as stated that Makepeace's primary role had been as an SGC/CIA mole working inside the NID. To use the parlance of the aforementioned cheesy spy movies, Colonel Makepeace had been a double agent.

In retrospect, had she been functioning at her normal capacity, she probably would have figured it out much sooner, at least from her brief phone conversation with General Hammond in the emergency room. Possibly even earlier, she realized when she reviewed Makepeace's behavior.

Still, it seemed so insane, so unlike Hammond. He had always seemed so very straightforward to her, at least until now. Just to confirm her hypothesis, she asked, "Colonel Makepeace was working for you all along?"

"From the very beginning," the general admitted.

"Spying on the NID." She didn't bother to make it a question.

"Yes."

Lord, what a convoluted mess.

The more she reflected on it, the more twisted the whole thing seemed to her. Had the normally upright, straight-arrow General Hammond really had much of a part in devising the original scheme, or if it had been solely Porter's brainchild? Poor Makepeace, stuck with playing such an unsavory part for so long. That thought immediately set her to wondering just how "voluntary" Makepeace's role had actually been. The general had sounded a little defensive when he made that particular statement. Or had she simply become too paranoid to judge the situation rationally?

No, she decided, she wasn't paranoid. Something was decidedly fishy. And there was one big problem in particular that bothered her. She directed a suspicious look at Porter. "I thought it was illegal for the CIA to conduct operations inside the U.S."

Hammond and Porter exchanged a look. "For the most part, it is," Porter explained. "We're restricted in intelligence gathering on U.S. citizens. But it can be authorized, especially if there are reasons to suspect espionage for foreign powers or certain...dangerous...activities. Face it, Major, there's nowhere more 'foreign' than where you people go, and nothing more potentially dangerous than what you do. The possibilities for misuse are immense."

"The NID's black ops programs?"

"Among other things."

"But who could authorize—?"

Hammond said sharply, "Major."

She subsided at Hammond's tone. There was a lot more to this than they were telling her. Carter determined to worm as many gory details as she could out of Hammond, just as soon as they were safe and didn't have an audience.

"Major, now that we've gotten that out of the way, do you think you could tell me your story?" Porter asked courteously. From the looks on his and Hammond's faces, she could tell it was not the polite request it sounded like. Definitely an order.

Banishing her less-than-healthy speculations, she organized her thoughts and started talking, detailing everything that had happened to her from her kidnapping at "Joe's" onward. Both men listened intently, looking very unhappy when, her voice faltering a little, she described the torture inflicted, the Sunfire drug and the attempted rape.

"Sounds like things have gotten a bit uglier since the old days," Porter commented to Hammond. The general only grunted in reply and gently told Carter to go on with her story.

Carter winced minutely, wondering exactly what Porter's comment meant, and finished up with a description of the rigged escape, and how it had all almost gone wrong due to what she perceived as her own stupidity.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Porter told her sympathetically. "Jesus, those bastards pushed both of you over the edge, then sacrificed six of their own men for that plan. Anyone would have been fooled."

"Would you?" Carter asked challengingly.

"Maybe, maybe not." Porter refused to meet her eyes. "But you've never been personally exposed to those kinds of tactics before. I'll only say that, in my line of work, sometimes things get unpleasant."

"Although not so much in recent times," Hammond added. Porter stayed silent. The general cocked an eyebrow at him, then went on, "It sounds like Colonel Makepeace was fooled, too, Major, and he's been around NID intrigues for quite a while now. I'd say this was an extreme case. You did absolutely nothing wrong, and a great many things right. In fact, you're to be commended for your actions. You saved Colonel Makepeace's life, and your own."

"Speaking of the good colonel, I think I'll go check on him. See if he's got any pressing information that can't wait. Assuming, of course, that spitfire doctor of yours doesn't throw me out again." With a cheery grin, Porter headed to the curtained area at the back of the airplane.

Carter waited until he was out of earshot, then began, "So the whole operation, even Colonel O'Neill's part in the original sting on the NID—"

"Colonel O'Neill has no knowledge of this, Major. Other than you, no one on SG-1 does, and only a few individuals in the SGC have even the slightest idea about what was going on."

"Will they be told?"

Hammond hesitated, considering his response to that question. "The entire SGC will be told a few pertinent and minimal details about Colonel Makepeace's activities. No mention of CIA involvement will be made."

"But that means—"

"That means, Major," Hammond said firmly, "that you can never reveal the full extent of this investigation. This operation will remain classified for a minimum of eighty years."

"That's a lifetime. Longer."

"Major, you of all people should know it's not uncommon for certain events to remain classified until long after all the principals are deceased. The Stargate Command itself..."

"I do understand, sir," she protested. "But surely Colonel O'Neill—"

"Can't know anything about the CIA's involvement. Porter wants to continue his surveillance of the NID, so the fewer people in the know who have contact with the NID in any capacity, the better.

"I'll be making a formal announcement about what's been going on. You just stick to that," he told her more gently. "This is no different than not telling your family about what you really do at Cheyenne Mountain. I know it'll be rough at first, so if you ever need to talk about it, my door is always open."

"Yes, sir," she sighed. The general was right, she told herself, this really wasn't any different than not talking about the SGC to unauthorized individuals. In this case, there were simply fewer people around cleared to hear the details, that was all. That was just the way these things were.

But for now, until the memories of her recent traumas dulled, she would need to remember to be careful when the subject of her kidnapping or Makepeace's escapades came up in conversation. She started mentally rehearsing saying the phrase "I honestly don't know" accompanied by a nonchalant or frustrated shrug of her shoulders, for those occasions when someone—like the too curious Daniel—wanted to know what had * _really*_ been going on. O'Neill, she assumed, had been around long enough to know better than to even ask in the first place, although he might tease her a bit, and Teal'c would just accept her word without question.

Then there was the focus of the whole thing, the nexus around which all the gossip would revolve. "And Colonel Makepeace, sir?" she asked, curious as to his fate.

Hammond's face became shuttered. "What about him?"

"What's going to happen to him? When he was * _arrested*_ ," she put a strong emphasis on that last word, "the base morale was severely impacted, even more so than when Colonel O'Neill was undercover, because everyone believed it was the real thing all along. Sir, the base's Marine contingent was so angry and demoralized it took them months to recover."

"I know," Hammond said quietly. "We considered all of that before we decided to go ahead with the full operation."

"What happens now? Will he stay with the SGC?"

"That's his decision, Major. I'll advise in favor of it, for his own safety if for no other reason—assuming he asks me for advice, of course."

"Will he be reassigned to SG-3?" she couldn't stop herself from asking. After all, Colonel O'Neill had been reassigned to SG-1 when his own stint on the SGC's extracurricular espionage squad was over. Then again, O'Neill's activities hadn't lasted nearly as long or been as involved as Makepeace's.

"You know better than to ask that, Major," Hammond snapped. Then he relented, shaking his head and looking away. He sighed. "I think we both know that would be a recipe for disaster."

Carter exhaled and nodded, subdued. She wasn't really sure what she had expected Hammond would say. She wasn't even sure what she wanted, or what would be best for the base. From his words, it sounded like Hammond considered some kind of NID retaliation a distinct possibility. Then again, they'd be fools to escalate matters too much. They couldn't afford to be put under the microscope right now.

She knew Hammond's words also applied to her to a certain extent. After all, she had been Hartley's tool in the latter part of the interrogation, and she had foiled the last phase of his ruthless scheme. Makepeace might not have been able to deliver cold, hard proof, but he had a lot of recent information in his head. Carter figured that Hartley, and anyone of importance who might have supported and funded his project, would be keeping a very low profile for a very long time.


	23. Chapter 23

After making a quick air-to-ground call, Porter parted the heavy curtains and stepped into Fraiser's medical domain. The doctor gave him the evil eye, but didn't immediately chase him away like the last time he'd intruded here. He took that as a sign that he could proceed, within limits. He was certain she'd let him know where the line was drawn before he managed to stumble across it.

The makeshift medical bay was tiny, comprising just enough floor space for Fraiser, one assistant, the gurney, and a surprising amount of complex equipment. Porter moved a little farther into the cramped area and considered his erstwhile, borrowed operative.

Makepeace had clearly had a rough time, his face and arms showing even more damage than Major Carter's had. An IV line ran into the back of his hand, and he was hooked up to some kind of portable monitor. Porter glanced at it, but the numbers and scrawling lines on the CRT didn't mean much to him. He shifted his attention back to Makepeace, who was conscious, but a little groggy from the drugs in his system.

"Colonel," Porter greeted politely, standing at his bedside.

Makepeace took one look at the CIA man and groaned, "Oh, God." Unlike Carter, he had no need of introductions or explanations. To his everlasting regret, he knew exactly who and what Richard Porter was.

Porter grinned. "It's good to see you again, too."

"Shit." Makepeace closed his eyes. "Do we have to do this now?"

"Absolutely not," Fraiser stated firmly, glaring at Porter. "Colonel Makepeace is still recovering from surgery. Moving him so soon was necessary, but he is in no condition for any kind of debriefing at this time."

Porter held both hands up in a placating gesture. "Hey, I wasn't suggesting anything like that. There won't be time before we land, anyway. I just stopped by to say hello, that's all, and maybe hand out an 'attaboy' or two."

"Sure you did," Makepeace muttered, keeping his eyes shut. "And to make sure I wasn't at death's door, otherwise you'd be grilling me all the way home."

"Colonel Makepeace will be fine in a day or two, as I told you before," Fraiser put in. "If it can wait—"

"It can," Makepeace said. "Carter told you where I stashed the evidence?"

Porter winced. Makepeace's memory didn't seem to be working. Probably the drugs.

"What?" Makepeace asked.

"I'm sorry, Colonel," Porter said unhappily, "but that particular detail's not worth much anymore. Carter says that Hartley's boys got everything."

"Fuck," Makepeace groaned, looking even more miserable than before. "You'll never nail them, then. By now they'll have pulled up stakes and disappeared into the wilderness. They won't have left anything traceable behind."

His emotions were so nakedly displayed on his face that Porter could almost read his mind: Almost two years of his life, flushed straight down the crapper.

"Maybe. I've got people checking out the mining facility and the train station," Porter told him, "but I suspect you're right, and they probably won't find anything. Do you think Hartley knows the Company's involved?"

"I was under the impression he believed I was working for a rival NID faction, or freelancing for Maybourne or a foreign power. He never mentioned the CIA to me."

"Good. We'll pull back a little, just in case, though. Other than that, I don't believe you have anything too terribly urgent in your brain. Unless you know any of the alternate locations for their next base of operations?"

When Makepeace only shook his head, Fraiser announced with thinly veiled hostility, "Then that's that. I want you," she nodded at Makepeace, "to rest, and you," she pointed at Porter, "to leave. Now."

Porter grinned broadly. "I know when I'm outgunned," he said in good-humored defeat. "I'll talk to you later, Colonel."


	24. Chapter 24

The journey back to the SGC seemed almost anticlimactic to Carter. She napped for most of the rest of the flight, only waking when the jet landed at the Colorado Springs Airport. Another autocade—not nearly as luxurious as the first since Hammond no longer bothered with his Texas oil man role—waited on the tarmac nearby.

Carter couldn't stop watching out the windows during the drive to the Mountain; despite Hammond's and Porter's reassurances, she was filled with tension, certain that there would be some kind of eleventh hour attack. When the cars rolled up to NORAD's razor-wire gates she collapsed back against the seat in such profound, overwhelming relief that she felt a little lightheaded. Hammond smiled at her sympathetically and patted her hand. Appropriate credentials were presented to the guards, then the cars drove straight into the tunnel.

Janet and her team took their charge down first. Carter watched with cynical amusement as Porter and a couple of plainclothes guards crammed themselves into the crowded elevator for that trip. Colonel Makepeace, she was sure, would be lucky if he got to use the bathroom by himself for the next few weeks.

Then it was her turn. Accompanied by General Hammond and more guards, she stepped into the elevator.

Carter finally relaxed during the ride down, allowing herself to believe—really believe—that the whole ordeal was over, that she was truly safe. She leaned against the elevator wall and let out a long sigh.

General Hammond placed a hand on her shoulder. "Hang in there, Major."

She smiled at him. Before she could reply, the elevator came to a stop. The doors slid open, and Carter stepped out into the SGC. Home. The gray concrete here seemed so welcoming, a strange and stark contrast to the concrete walls of the cell at the strip mine. Her smile grew broader as she took it all in—cement and steel, passing airmen, and down the hall—

"Sam!" Daniel shouted joyfully as he strode toward her. He gently grasped her arms and said, "Thank God you're all right."

Teal'c and Colonel O'Neill were right behind him. They crowded around her. O'Neill was grinning from ear to ear. "Good to see you again, Carter."

"We were most concerned when you disappeared," said Teal'c. Carter could have dropped from shock to see him smiling so openly.

"No kidding," O'Neill said, his mouth quirking. "For a while there, we were afraid the Colorado prison system had lost you for good." He sobered. "You are all right, aren't you?"

Daniel let his hands fall from her arms, giving her fingers a last squeeze before letting go completely. "You're okay, Sam, right?" He looked at Hammond. "General, you said she was okay..."

"I'm fine," she said, finding her voice at last. "Just tired. I haven't had much sleep for the last few days." That was true, but not what had kept her silent. The homecoming, seeing her friends, her own happiness and relief—it had all overwhelmed her for a moment. Daniel's last words rang in her head, and she asked the general, "You called ahead?" He must have done that while she'd been napping on the jet.

Hammond said, "I thought your team should know you were on your way home, and be on hand to greet you."

Carter's smile was blinding. "Thank you, sir." She turned back to her friends. She was home.


	25. Chapter 25

The infirmary's cold, concrete walls were welcome, even comforting surroundings. Makepeace lay on the bed, staring up at the dull gray ceiling, trying to define his emotions about being back in the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain after so long. He finally identified the predominant feeling in the volatile mixture that churned in his head and gut.

Safe.

He felt safe, for probably the first time in—how long? Since the deep undercover op had begun? Or before, when he was simply acting the part of Maybourne's mole? At least he'd been in familiar surroundings then, although even that relatively benign situation had nearly given him an ulcer. Certainly it had been a very long time since he'd had a truly peaceful night's sleep.

He sighed, bored with waiting for Doctor Fraiser to return and give him the results of his most recent round of blood work, then grinned when he remembered the good doctor's reaction when she had finally heard about the Sunfire drug. She'd practically hit the roof, ranting on about the dangers of mixing alien and Earth drugs, and had followed up by ordering an incredible array of tests on his and Carter's blood, and a few other bodily fluids as well.

Unfortunately, Fraiser had insisted on hanging on to him for a few extra days, as a precautionary measure in case the last traces of anesthetics and pain meds still in his system reacted adversely with the alien chemical. She hadn't been impressed by his assurances that Sunfire was quickly flushed from the body.

Carter, at least, wasn't stuck waiting in the infirmary, although she had been forced to spend a night under Fraiser's watchful eye. Then, upon her release, Hammond and Porter had hustled her off to give her what Makepeace privately termed "the party line," but was in actuality an intense security briefing. He'd gotten that unpalatable combination of lectures and veiled threats any number of times before he'd been swept away into the NID's murky depths, and expected to hear it a few more times before they finally decided he wouldn't spill any of their precious beans.

Then there would be the debriefings. Endless nightmares in the making.

Makepeace wasn't looking forward to those activities at all. Whereas Carter's would probably last for several days, he figured his would go on for weeks as General Hammond's people, Porter's CIA buddies, and God only knew who else extracted every last, miniscule, and probably irrelevant detail from the tiniest corners of his brain. For an instant he hated them all, even the ones he had not yet met. Would whatever new information they got from him be put to good use, or would it only further someone's personal agenda?

At least Carter had her teammates—her friends—to lean on while she suffered through the debriefing process. Makepeace experienced a sharp pang of envy, knowing that he was pretty much on his own. Oh, sure, Hammond would support him, and he knew there were a few people who had an inkling that all was not as it had seemed, but it really wasn't the same.

The gossip must really be flying by now. The whole base must know about his return, if not all the circumstances surrounding it. He positively dreaded his first encounter with his old teammates. How would they take the news? Not too well, he was sure.

Unlike O'Neill's brief foray into the underworld, his own had gone on for too long to be easily forgiven. He had fed Maybourne information, and later, actually ferried alien technology, for over a year while he had been SG-3's CO. The chances of anyone forgetting about that were nil. Perhaps his isolation was for the best, after all. Unconsciously, he picked at the bandages wrapped around his wrists.

Screw it. This extended waiting was making him morose. Where was Fraiser? She said she'd be right back, hopefully to release him if the tests came back clean.

Impatiently, he sat up and swung his feet over the edge of the bed, ignoring the twinges of stitches and bruises at the sudden, careless motion. The lightweight walking cast on his lower left leg banged into the rail, and he gritted his teeth against a sharp flash of pain. He considered his options, eyeing the crutches leaning against the wall, and the robe hanging next to them.

"Don't even think about it, Colonel." Fraiser's authoritative tones carried across the infirmary as she walked over to him, clipboard in hand. Talk about timing. Were all doctors psychic? he wondered, bemused.

General Hammond followed the doctor. Well, at least that accounted for Fraiser's extended absence. Makepeace figured she'd reported to the general, maybe even called him down to the infirmary. Makepeace suddenly felt uneasy about what Doctor Fraiser might be about to tell him.

Fraiser noticed his worried look and gave him a reassuring smile. "You're perfectly fine, Colonel Makepeace. The tests were all negative. There are no traces of any alien substances in your system."

"Then I can get out of here?"

"Tomorrow, if things still look okay. I want you to stay on the base for a while, though, so I can keep an eye on you for any surprise complications."

Makepeace shrugged. "It's not like I've got anywhere else to go."

Hammond said, "We can take care of that, Colonel. Your belongings were intercepted after they were confiscated, and put into storage under a false name. They're only a phone call away."

Makepeace looked at him with gratitude. "Thank you, sir."

Hammond exchanged a glance with Fraiser. She nodded and discreetly left, returning to her office.

When she was gone, the general turned back to Makepeace. "I'm sorry, son," he said. His eyes showed the sincerity of his remorse. "We had no idea what kind of a snake pit we were dropping you into back when all this started."

"It was my own fault," Makepeace sighed, filled with his own regrets. "I should have requested extraction after a month or two like we planned, but then I started seeing some of the really important stuff—"

"Twenty-twenty hindsight. No one could have predicted that they'd go all paranoid like that."

"I suppose."

Hammond took a seat by the bed. "Have you given any thought to what you'd like to do now?"

"Actually," Makepeace admitted wryly, "I've pretty much been thinking about anything but that."

"Do you think you might like to stay on here? I know it'll be difficult at first, but I'd hate to lose you over this."

Difficult? Hammond didn't know the half of it. Makepeace thought about what he'd have to suffer through—the whispers, the gossip, the fences that might never be mended.

The general was watching his face. "I'll do everything I can to smooth your transition back into the regular operations. We'll take it easy."

Makepeace nodded wordlessly.

"If it's your old team you're worried about, I've already told them everything I can. I'm sure they'll come around."

Makepeace stared at him. Hell, that meant they were really pissed. Makepeace was no fool, and he could read between the lines far better now than before he'd moonlighted as a spy.

Even disregarding the antagonism he would face from his old team, not to mention just about everyone else on the base, Makepeace had a hard time imagining what it would take to reintegrate into the SGC. Was it even possible? Would it be worth it to even try?

"You won't have to worry about day-to-day contact with them for a while yet, anyway," the general continued. "You won't be in any condition to do more than fly a desk for a while. After that, well, we'll see about field work. Maybe you could train a new team..."

Field work? Good God. What was Hammond thinking? Makepeace was afraid that the last year in undercover hell had probably ruined him for field work. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but that desk sounded awfully good.

Shit, maybe he ought to transfer out, go somewhere no one had ever heard of the NID or the Stargate. Training didn't seem like a bad idea. Maybe something was open at Quantico. Maybe he could get his career back on track in the regular Corps, before it was too late for him.

Hammond must have sensed his wavering, because he started talking about security, and even personal safety.

The reasons Hammond was proffering for staying were all good. Makepeace couldn't deny that. His desire to—admit it—run like a craven coward was motivated primarily by his present discomfort with his situation. Maybe he'd stay on, just for a little while, just to prove he could take it, that he wasn't ashamed of anything he'd done. Hell, he wasn't, and he'd shove that fact down the throat of anyone who said so much as a single word. Yeah, maybe he would.

As Hammond droned on, Makepeace glanced away and suppressed a tiny start. Standing in the hall, framed in the doorway, was Lieutenant Johnson. Captain Johnson now, Makepeace corrected himself. He wished he could have attended the promotion ceremony.

So many conflicting emotions flashed across the captain's features that his expression was impossible to read, but Makepeace tried anyway.

For an instant their eyes locked. Confusion reigned ascendant on Johnson's face. His lips parted as though to speak and he took a half step forward, then his expression hardened. He abruptly turned away and walked off.

The small drama had lasted but a few seconds, far too brief a time for Hammond to notice. The general finished his spiel with, "Don't worry. We'll work something out, Colonel."

Makepeace gazed down at his hands. "Yes, sir," he replied hollowly.

 ***** end *****

 _Written 2001/2002_

 _Revised 2003_

 _Revised and Posted to Makepeace List August/September 2008_

 _Posted Publicly October through December 2015_


End file.
